"Her Judy, indeed!" murmured Quentyns, when he read his wife's letter at his breakfast-table on the following morning. "Tiresome little piece--she'll never be _my_ Judy, however much she may be Hilda's. Well, I suppose I must make the best of a bad job, but if I had known beforehand that that wretched sentimental child was to be tacked on to us, I'd have thought twice.... No, I wouldn't though, I love Hilda well enough to bear some inconvenience for her sake; but if she thinks this step will really add to our happiness, she'll soon find her mistake. Fancy her asking me to sell her engagement ring! I can never get over that. Things can't be quite the same again--it's impossible. Well, well, more than one friend has told me I'd wake from my dream of bliss some day. I have, with a vengeance--it has been something of a shock too. Heigho! I am not going to _look_ like defeat, anyhow. Of course, too, I'll be just the same to Hilda outwardly. Ah, there's Susan--I'd better speak to her and get her to tell cook. This is Thursday--they'll be here in two days."