the dogs any more than she liked the horses.
She was fond of cats and had a favourite smoke-blue Persian, between
whom and the Poms there was an armed neutrality. The cat's name was
Cleopatra, and she deserved it. Her green eyes shone like emeralds
when she curled boa-fashion about her mistress's white neck and looked
down at the Poms.

Lady O'Gara had come out on the steps to meet Eileen and had kissed her
on each cold satin cheek, making a tender fuss about removing her
wraps. Her coldnesses were easily dispelled.

"Come right in, darling, and have some tea," she said fondly. "Why,
you are perished! It is very cold. We shall have a frost to-night.
And how are all at home?"

"Oh, much the same as usual. Mother has rheumatism. Dad is grumbling
over his large and expensive family and the bad year it has been for
everything. It is always a bad year with farmers, isn't it? The house
is tight-packed, as usual. They always have visitors. I _was_ glad to
escape to this delicious roominess. They are all outrageously well and
hungry, as Dad says. And some of them will love to come after
Christmas, if you can _really_ have them. They _must_ be at home for
Christmas, they say. I am sure some of them could well be spared."

A momentary vision passed before Lady O'Gara's inner eyes. It was of
Mrs. Anthony Creagh and the quiverful, three boys and five girls then,
to be increased later. Mrs. Anthony sat in her armchair, one child on
her lap, a second with its face buried in her trailing, somewhat shabby
silk skirt, two others peeping from behind her chair. The boys were at
a table with books open before them. Eileen, aged eight, and already
the beauty of the family, stood by her mother's knee, eating an apple.

"Cousin Mary wants one of my little girls to go home with her," Mrs.
Creagh had said, rather tearfully. She was an incurably motherly
person, whose heart expanded with the quiver--"She wants one of my
little girls to play with her Terry. Who will go?"

The boys had looked indifferent. The child whose face was buried in
her mother's skirts seemed to burrow a little further in, while the two
standing behind the chair disappeared. The baby on its mother's knee
only gurgled cheerfully, as though at the best joke in the world.

Then Eileen had laid down her half-eaten apple, and turning, had thrust
her moist little hand into Lady O'Gara's, warm from her muff. Dear
friendly thing! Lady O'Gara had bro