At four o'clock Mrs. Wentworth called from the house:
"James, will you come here a minute, please?"
A slow red stole over the man's face as he rose to his feet. The red was a deep crimson by the time he faced his wife.
"How are you going to send them home, dear?" she asked.
He shook his head.
"But it's four o'clock, and we ought to be thinking of it. Which two are you going to keep?"
"I—I don't know," he acknowledged.
For some unapparent reason Mrs. Wentworth's spirits rose, but she assumed an air of severity.
"Why, James!—have n't you told them?" she demanded.
"Mary, I couldn't; I've been trying to all the afternoon. Er—you tell them—do!" he urged desperately. "I can't—playing with them as I have!"