He looked quite at home and insignificant, there among his nephew’s gorgeously bound books, just a plain old man with an unexpectedly firm set of lips, meddling in affairs that really did not concern him in the least. So thought Aunt Petra, studying him with annoyance, amazed to catch a sudden passing likeness to the dead John Graeme in that firmness of jaw. Could it be that just Blakefield was going to make delay and trouble for them?

Meantime the others chattered on, discussing various plans, each apparently trying to shunt the weight of responsibility upon someone else.

“Of course, we shall have no trouble with the boys. That is, the older boys. Jeremy will naturally go back to college. Or prep school, which was it?” said Uncle Adrian thoughtfully.

“Prep school! I think, wasn’t it?” said Aunt Petra sharply. “I doubt if he ever gets far enough to enter college, and you don’t know what you’re talking about, Adrian. If he once does enter college, you’ll have more troubles than you can shake a stick at. That boy will go from one scrape to another, or I’ll miss my guess.”

“I shall talk to him,” said Uncle Adrian. “I shall let him understand that we will have no nonsense. That he will have to go out and fend for himself if he dares to get expelled from college. And I think he’ll understand when I get through with him that the time has come for him to brace up and try to be a man who will bring credit to his family name. At least he will see that someone is looking after him who will take no excuses from him. I don’t really anticipate much trouble from Jeremy. Of course, I don’t know him so very well. I doubt if I’ve seen him since he was ten or twelve, but I fancy he will see life from a different angle after I am through with him. Then if you ladies can take Jennifer and give her a good dressing down and let her understand what is expected of her from now on, I should think you could count on her making a good marriage within a reasonable time, and that’s two of them disposed of. Now, how many more are there?”

“Five!” said Majesta Best laconically. “Robin and Karen and Heather and Tryon and Hazel!”

“Mercy! What names! Every one of them odd!” said Aunt Petra. “Whatever did Miriam and John mean lumbering their children up with such awful names? If I were in their place I’d change my name, every one of them. Think of handicapping a boy with that old-fashioned name of Jeremy! It sounds as if it came out of the Bible. And as for Jennifer, it’s heathenish, I think. I should be ashamed to introduce her to my friends by that name. I shall call her Jennie. Or Jane. That’s very popular now, Jane! I’ll begin calling her that right away. It suits her very well. Jane Graeme!”

And all the time Jennifer Graeme lay cramped in that deep leather chair in the far corner of the library, boiling with rage at her relatives.

“Well,” said Aunt Lutie, who arrived just then in the best car and entered with a flutter and a flourish, “did I hear you criticizing the children’s names as I came in? You must admit there is one that is well named. Tryon. Tryon Graeme.