On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. She glanced towards her sister, and curiously enough found in her face some faint reflection of her own rather sombre mirth. ‘Come, cry a truce. Brendon. “I think we have,” he answered, gravely, and took her in his arms, and smoothed her hair from her forehead, and very tenderly kissed her lips. ‘And I’d like to know what the devil—’ ‘Out of town?’ repeated Melusine, stupefied. Bottles and glasses usurped the place of dishes and plates. “I have noticed,” he said, “that you seem to delight in taking a topsy-turvy view of life. But for me it doesn’t matter.
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