And for an hour or two the children were as really happy as they had been for a good while, and when the thought of their father and what had become of him pressed itself forward on Gladys, she pushed it back with the happy trust and hopefulness of children that "to-morrow" would bring good news.
In a part of Paris, at some distance from the Rue Verte, that very afternoon three people were sitting together in a pretty drawing-room at "afternoon tea." They were two ladies—a young, quite young one, and an older. And the third person was a gentleman, who had just come in.
"It's so nice to find you at home, and above all at tea, Auntie," he said to the elder lady. "It is such a horrid day—as bad as London, except that there's no fog. You haven't been out, I suppose?"
"Oh yes, indeed we have," replied the young lady. "We went a long way this morning—walking—to auntie's upholsterer, quite in the centre of the town. It looks very grim and uninviting there, the streets are so narrow and the houses so high."
"I've walked a good way too to-day," said the young man.
"I am glad to hear it, my boy," said his aunt. "I have been a little afraid of your studying too hard this winter, at least not taking exercise enough, and you being so accustomed to a country life too!"
"I don't look very bad, do I?" said the young man, laughing. He stood up as he spoke, and his aunt and sister glanced at him with pride, though they tried to hide it. He was tall and handsome, and the expression of his face was particularly bright and pleasant.
"You are very conceited," said his sister. "I am not going to pay you any compliments."