e had begun greedily to examine.

'I think we must be going,' said the eldest of the five, politely; and
then he stopped short. The absurdity of the situation upset his dignity
again, and he stood there fingering his cap nervously.

'What about Babs?' asked Miss Finlayson; and her eyes twinkled and shone
till one might almost have supposed them to be filled with tears.

The boys looked towards the fireplace; but Miss Finlayson was standing in
front of it, and the little figure in the pink dressing-gown was hidden
from view. The head-mistress, at all events, had come to the conclusion
that the problem was too difficult for Barbara to solve.

'Yes, what about the Babe?' said Egbert, glancing round at the others.

'We did come to rescue her,' maintained Peter, 'and I do think----'

'Isn't Babs coming?' interrupted Robin, in tones of amazement. It seemed
a great waste of time to come all this way, and not to rescue anybody in
the end. Of course, there was the supper to be taken into consideration;
but it would be contrary to all precedent in the Berkeley family, if the
boys were to let themselves be influenced by _supper_.

'She'd be an idiot if she did come,' muttered Wilfred, under his breath.
He, undoubtedly, had been influenced by the supper.

Christopher pushed a chair on one side with a quick, impatient movement.
'She won't come,' he said once more. Then he caught a look from his
hostess, and reddened slightly. 'Perhaps she had better stay,' he added,
with an effort.

'Thank you, Kit,' said Miss Finlayson, with a nod and a smile at him. Then
she turned to the others again. The look of amusement never left her face
once. 'Will some one ask the Babe what she feels about the matter?' she
suggested.

She moved on one side to give them the opportunity. But the question was
never put. Babs had stopped trying to make up her mind; and the little
girl in the pink dressing-gown was lying curled up on the hearthrug, fast
asleep.

CHAPTER VIII

THE DISENCHANTMENT OF A BEAST

Barbara was stretched, face downwards, on the floor of the junior
playroom. It was Wednesday evening, about ten days after the rescue
party had invaded Wootton Beeches; and she was trying, with the aid of
much ink and a footstool for a writing-desk, to answer Kit's last two
letters, and to send him all the news she had accumulated since that
important occasion. Over her head buzzed the desultory conversation of
her fifty-five companions