they've been to me themselves. You don't, know . . . You can't imagine the things they've taught me. They're awfully naughty at times, because they're so clever; but when they're good they're the wisest people I know." She paused, and a sudden inspiration illuminated her. "But why shouldn't we take them with us?" she exclaimed.
Her husband's arms fell away from her, and he stood dumfounded.
"Take them with us?"
"Why not?"
"All five of them?"
"Of course—I couldn't possibly separate them. And Junie and Nat will help us to look after the young ones."
"Help us!" he groaned.
"Oh, you'll see; they won't bother you. Just leave it to me; I'll manage—" The word stopped her short, and an agony of crimson suffused her from brow to throat. Their eyes met; and without a word he stooped and laid his lips gently on the stain of red on her neck.
"Nick," she breathed, her hands in his.
"But those children—"
Instead of answering, she questioned: "Where are we going?"
His face lit up.
"Anywhere, dearest, that you choose."
"Well—I choose Fontainebleau!" she exulted.
"So do I! But we can't take all those children to an hotel at Fontainebleau, can we?" he ques-
