“You’re right, my Lady⁠—a regular little Flint. They were always a forward sandy-headed family,” said Mrs. Bolton.

“Wouldn’t you like to see it, Clifford? I’ve asked them to tea for you to see it.”

“Who?” he asked, looking at Connie in great uneasiness.

“ Mrs. Flint and the baby, next Monday.”

“You can have them to tea up in your room,” he said.

“Why, don’t you want to see the baby?” she cried.

“Oh, I’ll see it, but I don’t want to sit through a teatime with them.”

“Oh,” said Connie, looking at him with wide veiled eyes.