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 triumphed, as proud of this vicarious courage as of the perfection of the dinner.

“Never,” said Delia. “Especially, I mean, the foundlings—there are two, I think. Those children always die if they are sent to asylums. That is what is haunting Chatty.”

“Poor innocents! How I love her for loving them! That there should be such scoundrels upon this earth unpunished—. Delia, will you tell her that I’ll do whatever—”

“Gently, old man, gently,” Jim admonished him, with a flash of Ralston caution.

“Well, that is to say, whatever—in reason—”

Delia lifted an arresting hand. “I’ll tell her, Joe: she will be grateful. But it’s of no use—”

“No use? What more—?”

“Nothing more: except this. Charlotte Rh