“But my good blockhead”—Alain Devenish, who had just wandered into the library after enjoying a late breakfast, leaned forward and placed both hands on the map his friend was attempting to read—“it is positively—heathen! Leave your confounded swamp for a minute and attend me! No offense, but—the putrid lot tried to put a period to you! Their own flesh and blood! And you allow them to remain here, a full week after their dastardly schemes failed? Blest if ever I heard of such a thing!”
Obediently, Montclair looked up from the map of Amberly Down. “You may believe I’ll be glad to see the back of ’em—with the exception of Babs, of course. I insist they keep to the South Wing, and not come into this part of the house, but Junius is very ill, Dev. I can hardly force them to move him when even the doctor from Town said it would be a death sentence.”
“The dirty bastard wouldn’t be in such a fix had he not planned your death in a particularly slow and horrible fashion.” Vaughan, who was sprawled in a deep chair reading The Times, tossed the newspaper aside and added, “If Diccon has his way—”
“Diccon has his hands full trying to trace Imre Monteil. Besides, Junius is a bad man, I’d be the last to dispute that. But if I pressed charges and the lot came out…” Montclair shrugged. “It won’t do. The Family, you know.”
Devenish nodded a gloomy acknowledgement of the sanctity of The Family. “I know. I suppose you’re the head now—eh?”
“Unfortunately.”
Vaughan said sympathetically, “Bad luck, old lad. Curst lot of bothersome responsibilities. And with the staff you’ve got here, and your farms and villages…” He shuddered.
“You think it’s bad now,” said Devenish cheerfully. “Only wait ’til you set up your nursery!” And with an oblique glance at Vaughan, “I suppose your nautical great-uncle wants you to get leg-shackled as fast as may be?”
Bending over the map hurriedly, Valentine murmured, “He said something of the sort. I’m in no hurry. I’ve to see Babs safely wed first.”
Through a short silence Devenish frowned at him, then said with a trace of diffidence, “While Joss and I were having a jolly time being vagrants at Highperch—”
“For which I shall never be able to thank you enough,” interjected Montclair, smiling gratefully from one to the other. “When I think of how you hovered about trying to protect me—”
“We were truly noble,” nodded Devenish complacently.
“And such splendid painters,” mused Vaughan.
Montclair laughed. “The most ruffianly pair of hedgehogs I ever saw. But it’s amazing I didn’t recognize you, if only for the fun and gigs you had at my expense! Small wonder I warned Su— Mrs. Henley against you. Did you know you scared her half to death one night when she caught you watching Highperch?”
Vaughan threw up his hands. “C’est mal! That was our Diccon. He took the night shift whilst we got our beauty sleep.”
“And as for being scared to death,” said Devenish, “the lady came nigh to causing both Joss and me to swoon with fright when she damn near rode us down in the woods that day!”
Montclair’s expression sobered. “You refuse to let me properly thank you, but—”
“Oh, do stow it, you block,” snorted Vaughan. “Cease interrupting with all this poppycock, when we want to talk sensibly. Now—speaking of weddings—”
Valentine returned his gaze to the map. “We weren’t.”
“Yes, we were,” argued Devenish. “You said you had to get Babs married off. And—er, as to the Glorious Widow—she is … ah, glorious. Eh, my tulip?”
“Mmm,” said Valentine, his head bowing lower over the map.
Vaughan said, “Dev and I—we rather thought … That is— We don’t mean to pry, but—”
Montclair straightened and looked at them gravely. “Thank you,” he said. “I’m very grateful for that.”
“Oh,” said Devenish, blinking at him.
“Er—quite,” said Vaughan.
* * *
A week later Mr. Yates strolled with Alain Devenish through the sunlit water gardens, and pointed out, “Well, he is in deep mourning, sir.”
“I fully understand that,” nodded Devenish. “But—”
“Do you really, Mr. Devenish? No—please don’t think I mean to be insolent. I know you was friends with Mr. Valentine at school. But—you didn’t see them grow up, sir. I did. Always fighting, they were. Over nothing, most of the time. But they made it up quick as a wink, and underneath they were as close as brothers can be. Master Geoff was the more easy natured of the two; a bit on the lazy side, perhaps, if I may be so bold as to remark it. But such charm that boy had, sir. Wound us all round his little finger, he did. Aside from their squabbles, which is only natural in two healthy young boys, Master Valentine fairly idolized his brother. Master Geoff could do no wrong in his eyes. ’Til he went flaunting off and—” The steward checked himself abruptly. “I think Mr. Val—I mean his lordship—was counting the days ’til his brother come home. Never wanted the title, he didn’t. Or the fortune. He’s not one for all the antics of Society, like Master Geoff was. All he wanted was his music … Now—” He shrugged.
“That’s another thing,” said Devenish. “I used to find Lord Valentine at his harpsichord every time I came. I don’t think I’ve seen him in that music room once since the fight at Highperch. Nor has Mr. Vaughan.”
“He doesn’t have time, sir. Since you two gentlemen left, he works all the hours of the day and often far into the night as well.”
“Works? At what? Never say he means to add on to this overgrown hut?”
The steward grinned. “Not exactly, sir, though he does intend to rebuild the family Chapel. It’s the land, mostly. He wants each of the estate labourers to be given a cottage and a small acreage so as to grow his own crops. He has been going over the parcels and approving sketches for the cottages. And he’s consulting with surveyors and engineers to get that swamp drained at Amberly Down. He means to have the stream rerouted so it flows as it did before the flood. Our tenant-farmers have had a lot of trouble with standing water in their fields.”
“But—surely all that’s your job,” said Devenish, frowning.
“Right you are, sir.” Yates added wryly, “And his lordship consults with me about it. Constant! Fair wears me out, he does! I don’t mind hard work, Mr. Devenish. But—he never stops! It’s almost as if—he doesn’t dare to stop…”
“Hmmn,” said Alain Devenish.
* * *
Sir Selby Trent was thinner and wore a dejected look. The afternoon sun was slanting golden lances across the gleaming floors of the Great Hall, and he glanced around with a faint sigh for vanished dreams. “It is a sad thing,” he said reproachfully, “when a gentleman has to petition for a talk with his own kin.”
“Isn’t it,” said Montclair, waving him to a chair, and marvelling that this devious scoundrel wore blacks and had the gall to affect that ill-used air. “I’m glad you came, sir. I have wanted a word with you before you leave.”
“We will depart as soon as is humanly—perhaps I should have said humanely possible. But for the time being, my—my poor son…” Trent pressed a kerchief to his eyes.
“About Barbara,” said Valentine firmly.
Sir Selby blew his nose. “My dear wife is fetching her,” he sighed.
“As head of the family, I’ll not stand by and see her forced into marriage with the likes of Dennis Pollinger, whether—”
“I wonder you can bring yourself to speak to my husband so rudely, when our beloved son lies on his bed and will likely never walk again.” Lady Trent’s shrill voice was an instant abrasion to Montclair’s nerves, and he thought she looked like a bird of prey as she came into the room clad in severe blacks, as was her daughter.
He stood, and said with icy courtesy, “Good day, madam.”
Barbara gave him a look of anguish. He smiled at her, and added in a very different tone, “I’ve missed seeing you, little one.”
She gave a helpless gesture. “Val—I’m so sorry—”
“Do not dare to apologize!” cried my lady militantly. “When I think what we have suffered from all the lies and hypocrisy that have been circulated about us, and—”
“Enough!” His temper flaring, Montclair interrupted, “You know perfectly well what I could have done—and for the sake of our family, have not done. I have nothing to say to either of you, except insofar as Barbara is concerned.”
“I had hoped you asked to see us out of Christian charity,” murmured Sir Selby, blinking his pale eyes.
“You should have known better,” snapped his wife. “Well, I at least shall not mince words. Whatever was done, Valentine Montclair, was done in an effort to save the family name. You may well look ashamed,” she added, as Montclair’s face reflected his astonishment. “You supposed we did not know how you lusted after that trollop at Highperch!” She overrode his infuriated attempt to speak by the simple expedient of raising her voice another decibel or two. “A fine scandal it would have caused had you brought her here as your wife! My dear son was wrong, I’ll admit. But if he caused you to feel a—er, a trifle indisposed, it was only—”
“A trifle indisposed, madam,” thundered Montclair, causing her ladyship’s eyes to goggle as she drew back a step. “Do you fancy me to be a total fool? I was being deliberately poisoned before ever Mrs. Henley moved here! You and your son conspired to bully the lady into keeping me at Highperch, and then sent over poisoned medicine. There is no doubt in my mind but that I was meant to expire there so that the widow and her family could be made the scapegoats, thus killing two birds with one stone! That’s why you stayed away; why you kept my servants away, not even permitting my man to come to me! You wanted no possible connection made between yourselves—and my death!”
“Alas,” moaned Sir Selby, burying his pale face in his kerchief once more. “This is Monteil’s doing! He has planted the seeds of distrust in your poor confused head! Oh, that you would take the word of that snake in the grass, over that of your own dear relations!”
“Not all, sir,” said Valentine, breathing hard. “Only those now dwelling under my roof!”
Taking a new course, my lady threw a hand to her bosom and swayed alarmingly. “My heart…! I am … going to swoon…”
“You’d best wait until I pull up a chair, ma’am,” said Montclair dryly, “so that you may accomplish it with grace.”
Her eyes opened wide, then narrowed. She crouched, glaring at him so balefully that for a moment he thought she meant to claw him. “Always, you hated Junius,” she hissed. “Only because he was everything you are not! You have caused him to be crippled, and broken a poor mother’s heart! And you may think you’ve won! But you’ll not interfere in my daughter’s life and so I tell you! She will wed Pollinger. And if you dare attempt to—”
“The Comtesse de Bruinet, m’lud,” announced Prospect from the east door.
Lady Trent gave a horrified little scream and her arrogance crumpled. She threw a glance of stark despair at Valentine. “You won’t—”
With a flood of rapid-fire French, Madame la Comtesse swept into the room. She had been in Italy, and had but now heard of très cher Valentine’s tragic loss. She was accablée de douleur, affligée to learn that he had been seriously injured, and now was so cruelly bereaved. She threw her arms wide and, flushing but grateful, he bent to her embrace and thanked her for her kindness in having come to console him.
But what else should she do? she demanded. Was he not her very dear young friend? And did one not go to one’s friends were they in trouble?
Apparently becoming aware at this point that others were in the room, she permitted the Trents to welcome her, but the warmth faded markedly from her manner, and a bleak look came into her eyes. She advised Barbara that she looked unhappy and—with a stern look at Sir Selby—that young people should never be made unhappy.
“But I assure you, Madame la Comtesse,” cooed Lady Trent, “our daughter is very joyful indeed. Or as joyful as one might properly be under our sad circumstances,” she amended hurriedly. “After the proper period of mourning for my dearest Geoffrey, she will be married to a splendid gentleman.”
“Ah,” said the Comtesse shrewdly. “Is that the problem then, mon petit chou? Have you not the affection for this allegedly ‘splendid’ gentleman?”
“W-well, I—” Barbara’s shy voice died away, and her eyes dilated as the French doors opened to admit another caller.
“Mices fren!” declared Angelo, beaming at Montclair. He saw his beloved then, and advanced, his eager eyes encompassing only her.
“The deuce!” exclaimed Sir Selby, starting from his chair, outraged.
“How dare you come in here?” shrilled my lady, equally outraged. “Trent, have this person put—” She broke off, her jaw dropping.
The mighty Comtesse de Bruinet had started up from her chair when the Spaniard entered. Now she sank into a deep and graceful curtsy before him. “Your Highness,” she murmured.
“Your … what…?” whispered my lady, stunned.
“Good … God!” quavered Sir Selby, staring.
“I’ll be damned,” muttered Valentine, grinning.
With superb grace Angelo raised the Comtesse and kissed her hand. “My charming Danielle,” he said in fluent French. “You are a rascal, and have brought my finest adventure to a close. Vraisemblablement it is time. You will be so kind, madame, as to present me to these people.” And noting her puzzled look, he explained, “They know me, you comprehend, by a different name.”
A twinkle came into her eyes. “So you have been up to your tricks again, have you, sir? As you wish. Mesdames et messieurs, it is my honour to present you to Angelo Francisco Luis Lagunes de Ferdinand, Duke of Alberini and Passero, and a fugitive from oppression, even as I.”
Montclair’s brows lifted. The Duke of Alberini and Passero might be a fugitive from oppression, but if report spoke truly, his royal father had fled his Duchy with a vast fortune, and his palaces in Switzerland and Italy were said to be breathtaking.
From the corner of his eye he saw Lady Trent and Barbara sink into low curtsies, while Sir Selby’s hair all but swept the floor. Angelo’s amused eyes were on him, and Montclair bowed politely.
The Spaniard winked at him, then crossed to stand beside Barbara. She looked up at him, startled, but adoring. He turned to Sir Selby and said, still in French, and with coldly punctilious good manners, “You would do me great honour, sir, if you would grant me the hand of your daughter in marriage.”
“Er— I—” gulped Sir Selby.
“Oh, your Highness!” squeaked Lady Trent, in a transport of delight. “We are honoured. Truly—honoured! Trent…!”
Valentine murmured irrepressibly, “But—what about the ‘splendid’ Pollinger?”
Ignoring him completely, Sir Selby Trent took his daughter’s hand and bestowed it upon the Duke of Alberini and Passero.
* * *
The morning was hot and sultry, and by noon Montclair was glad to retreat into the cool house for luncheon. He ate in the smaller dining room, alone as always, now that Dev and Joss were gone, the vast table stretching off before him, the silence seeming to press in. As soon as the Trents left, he thought, he would get some dogs. He’d have done so when their old collie, MacPherson, died, save that Soldier would make short work of any pup he’d brought here. He smiled cynically as he considered the imminent departure of his family. Lady Trent was all benevolence now that her plain daughter had made so incredibly illustrious a match, and Barbara had been allowed to visit her cousin several times this past week. Montclair looked forward to these occasions, for aside from his delight at having a little company, sometimes Barbara would speak of Highperch, and he snatched at each crumb of news from his cottage. There had not been much more than crumbs, however. Susan and her brother had been in Town, searching for a suitable house. Priscilla, said Barbara, was quiet and subdued. “But she always asks about you, Val. I think she must love you very much.”
Montclair sighed, then stood, impatient with himself. He was allowing himself time to think, and that was disastrous. He must get to work again. He strode across the dining room and into the hall, and caught a glimpse of Yates’s blue coat disappearing at speed around the corner into the Great Hall. His call was unavailing. Irked, he started after the man. He passed several footmen and lackeys, all of whom sprang to attention at his approach, but there was no further sign of Yates. The steward must have been fairly flying to have navigated the length of the big room so speedily. He was not to be seen in the south hall, nor in the conservatory. Montclair thought he heard hurried footsteps in the Gallery, but with a faint smile he took pity on his steward and turned towards his music room.
Jimson (now promoted to be his lordship’s personal footman) appeared from somewhere and swung open the door, and Montclair smiled his thanks and wandered to the harpsichord. He let his fingers drift over the keys. Did they really plan to move back into Town? Perhaps it would be as well. The country probably held unhappy memories for her. She was so lovely she’d soon have a score of admirers clamouring for her hand. It was only right that she should marry again and settle down with some lucky fellow … His aimless music ended in a crashing discord, and he hurried outside.
The air was scorching. Deep in thought, he strolled down the terrace steps, hands in his pockets and head down.
“I wish you hadn’t of taked so long to come out,” said a small wilting voice. “I waited an’ waited an’ it’s so drefful hot, an’ I’m thirsty!”
“Priscilla!” he cried, and dropping to one knee held out his arms.
The child ran to hug him, and Wolfgang came panting over to utter a few desultory yelps of greeting.
“Why ever did you not come and knock at the door?” asked Montclair.
Her big eyes slid past him to scan the house with awe. “It’s so grand,” she said simply. “We was ’fraid to ’sturb it.”
He chuckled, and suggested that they all go inside for a glass of lemonade. This lure was very well received, and a smiling maid conducted the small caller to a room where she might wash her heated face and refresh herself. Jimson was sent hurrying to the kitchen, and when Priscilla returned she was seated at the dining room table where cold lemonade, fresh fruits, dainty finger sandwiches, and a selection of pastries awaited her. A mat was laid down, and much to the amusement of the servants, a bowl of water and a beef bone were offered to Wolfgang.
“Oooh, scrumptious!” exclaimed Priscilla, her eyes lighting up. She wasted no more time on words, but gave her full attention to the meal until she noticed that Mr. Val was watching her instead of eating, whereupon he was pressed to join her. He helped her dispose of the pastries while they chattered merrily.
Jimson went off with a grin and told the chef it was the first time he’d seen the master enjoy a meal since his friends had left.
“What a hugeous big house,” said Priscilla, looking about with interest. “Do you wish it was yours, Mr. Val?”
“It is, now. Do you like it?”
“Not if it makes you sad.”
He smiled at her. “Why do you say that, Lady Priscilla?”
“’Cause your eyes got painy when I asked if you wanted it. But it’s drefful lovely to hear you call me Lady P’scilla ’gain.” She tucked a very sticky hand in his, and said intensely, “I’ve missed and missed you, Mr. Val, an’ I telled Wolfgang, an’ he said”—she lowered her tone to one suitable for the ‘Fierce and Invincible Guard Dog’—”‘If Mr. Val won’t kindly come an’ see us, we must go an’ see him,’ so here we are.”
He took up her small hand and kissed it, stickiness and all. “I’m very glad you’re here. I’ve—missed you, too. And … everyone. Is your mama well?”
She considered this while attending to a cheese tart. “Sometimes,” she said, muffled. “When she comed home with Uncle Andy, I thinked she’d been crying, but she says she’s just tired. Are you tired, Mr. Val?”
“Me? No! Never! Why do you ask?”
“All the grown-ups seem to be tired. Mama’s tired. An’ the Bosun’s tired ’cause he’s been painting so much. An’ Starry said she was tired of always giving him the same answer to his question, so he said, ‘Then why don’t you give me a yes instead?’ So she did. An”—her eyes grew very round and she said in a dramatic whisper—“D’you know what, Mr. Val? He kissed her! Right in the Still Room! I saw him! An’ Starry put her arms all the way round him! An’ he’s so old! Older than you!”
He laughed and ruffled her hair. “Love doesn’t stop because we get old, my lady. If you’d care to come and see some more of my house, I’ll show you a picture of my grandmama and grandfather who were deeply in love ’til the day they died. Would you like that?”
“Oh, yes please, Mr. Val!” She nodded so vehemently that the cheese tart in her hand shattered, and he helped her remove a piece of pastry from her hair, sending her into whoops of mirth when he said it was the first time he’d ever gone on a pastry hunt. One of the maids took her off for repairs again, and he was standing at the window musing on how much brighter the afternoon seemed because she was here, when she came running eagerly back to him.
He knew that she must have slipped away without permission, and that he should really take her back at once. But he ignored conscience and invited Wolfgang to join them. The little dog wagged his tail but declined the offer, evidently deciding his guard duties could be postponed until he had dealt with the bone.
The Grand Tour encompassed the first floor only, but took some time. The innumerable chambers through which they passed were all approved of, and Priscilla said of Lord and Lady Colwynne Montclair that they looked as if they were happy people and she could believe they’d loved each other very much. She found the “indoor garden” most to her liking. “Though it would be nicer,” she said, surveying the conservatory critically, “if you let some birds come in to the trees and bushes. They’re too quiet.” She lowered her voice to a confiding whisper. “The whole house is quiet. Hasn’t you found yourself a wife, Mr. Val?”
He led her to the windowseat in the front bay of the Gallery, and sat beside her. “I’ve found the lady I’d like to have for a wife, Lady Priscilla. But I don’t think she wants me, and at all events, the world won’t let me have her.”
Still holding his hand, she gazed up at him. “Why?”
He answered slowly, “Oh—because it’s a funny old world, my lady, and I must—play by the rules.”
She threw both arms around him and gave him a strong hug. “Poor Mr. Val. I heard the Bo’sun say he wouldn’t be in your shoes for any ’mount. Though I don’t think your shoes would fit him, you know, ’cause the Bo’sun’s a dear, but he’s got awful big feet. I’ll have to tell him it’s not your shoes that’s giving you pepper.” She frowned thoughtfully. “Starry says I’m not to say your name to Mama, so I ’spect Mama won’t like it, an’ we’ll have to keep it very secret ’tween us. But I’d best sac’fice for you. Then at least you’d know you had a lady—somewhere. Would that help?”
He said in a rather husky voice, “Yes, my dear. Indeed it would. Is that why you came all this way on such a hot day? To sacrifice for me?”
Her little face clouded. She pushed the spectacles up her nose and looked at him in sudden deep tragedy. “No. I—I comed to say—goodbye.”
His heart contracted painfully. “You are moving away, then?”
“No. We’re moving away now! Uncle Andy and Mama finded a house in Town, and—and Mama says I shall like it. But—” Her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Mr. V-Val—I don’t want to like it! I don’t want to go ’way. I have a simply drefful time f-finding friends. Look how long it took to find you! And now … I got to lose you!”
Overwhelmed, he pulled her close against him and hugged her tight. “I don’t want you to go either, sweetheart.”
“I lose all my friends,” she sobbed. “I think I—won’t have any more. Ever! It’s too sad when … when you have to—go ’way!”
Montclair buried his face against her tumbled curls and for a moment couldn’t say anything at all. Then he asked unsteadily, “When—will you leave?”
“Ever so soon. As soon as the Bo’sun buys some more paint. There wasn’t enough in my tub.”
He stiffened. “But—I thought— Do you say the Bo’sun is finishing the front of Highperch with the paint you used for your doll house?”
“No,” she sniffed. “He started it all over ’gain.”
She wouldn’t! Surely, however she despised him she wouldn’t take her revenge by desecrating the dear old place with that hideous purple?
“I don’t like it,” Priscilla went on sadly, taking the handkerchief he rather absently handed her. “It’s not pretty. But Mama says we must leave you something to ’member us by … Why is your face so red, Mr. Val?” And with the bewilderingly sudden recovery that is the way of childhood, she did not wait for him to respond, but said an excited “Only look at all the carriages!”
With an effort Montclair collected himself and turned to the window.
A long cavalcade was winding up the drivepath; an ornate travelling coach in the lead, followed by three luxurious closed chariots, a phaeton, and a curricle, all piled high with luggage. The final vehicle was a huge coach, so topheavy with boxes and bags it was remarkable it had not foundered. The coachmen and footmen wore an elegant but unfamiliar dark blue livery, nor did Valentine recognize any of the eight outriders. ‘Who the devil…?’ he thought, and wondered uneasily if Great Uncle Chauncey had decided to move in.
Taking Priscilla’s hand, he muttered, “We’d best go and see who this is.”
They went out onto the front steps. Prospect, flanked by two lackeys, was already waiting, and several stableboys were running along the drivepath.
The leading carriage halted, the high-bred team snorting and cavorting about. The footmen jumped down and one ran to swing open the door and let down the steps, while the other began to unload valises.
“Good God, Prospect,” murmured Valentine sotto voce, “we’re being invaded! Who the deuce is this?”
Prospect’s eyes twinkled. He whispered, “I couldn’t say, m’lud, but—”
An extremely beautiful young lady who was obviously in a delicate condition was handed down the steps. “Oh!” she exclaimed, gazing rapturously at Montclair. “Is this my brother? He is so handsome!”
Valentine’s jaw sagged.
Both footmen were now inside the vehicle. A gentleman was being tenderly supported down the steps. He seemed very frail, and his dark head was bowed as he accepted a walking cane and leaned on it heavily. Then he looked up. From shadowed hollows a pair of dark eyes gazed at Valentine. The pale, sunken face twisted with emotion; a thin arm reached out.
With a choked sob, Valentine was sprinting down the steps to hug and weep and be wept over. “Geoff!” he gulped. “Oh—my dear God! Geoff!”
“Val,” gasped Geoffrey, Baron Montclair, tears gleaming on his cheeks. “Good old Val. You … thought me dead, I’ll wager! And—and here I am … like the proverbial bad penny … come to wrest the title away from you, poor old lad!”
“Stupid … cawker,” managed Valentine.
Priscilla had followed him down the steps and now paused uncertainly. She was considerably shocked to see tears on the cheeks of her beloved friend, for an English gentleman did not weep. Her disappointment was forgotten, however, when from the following carriage came two small children. A little girl, and a boy of about seven with fair curls and a pair of bright green eyes which looked her over appraisingly. “Hello. I’m Theodore,” he said. “Have you got any brothers?”
Priscilla shook her head. “No. I’ve got a dog.”
His face, which had fallen, brightened again. “Have you truly?”
“An’ my uncle’s got a boat,” said Priscilla.
“Oh, jolly fine!” said Theodore, his eyes shining with admiration. Clearly, Priscilla was acceptable. He cast about for something equally impressive, but at last admitted regretfully, “I’ve only got a sister. This is her. Alice. She’s four.”
Alice had fair curls, a shy smile, and a battered doll. She had something of inestimably greater value. She wore big spectacles. Priscilla smiled at her. Alice held out her doll, and Priscilla inspected it.
“Wha’ your name?” asked Alice.
Priscilla told her.
“Can we go and see your dog now?” asked Theodore.
“All right, but you’ll have to be very quiet ’cause he’s hugeous fierce an’ drefful, you know. His name’s Wolfgang…”