"He has asked me for a subscription to the funds of the organisation. I shall give him one, of course."
"Of course." Mrs. Topes nodded. "My nephew, the one who was a major during the war, volunteered in the last coal strike. He was sorry, I know, that it didn't come to a fight. 'Aunt Annie,' he said to me, when I saw him last, 'if there had been a fight we should have knocked them out completely—completely.'"
In Aleppo, the Fascisti, malignant and turbaned, were fighting, under the palm trees. Weren't they palm trees, those tufted green plumes?
"What, no ice to-day? Niente gelato?" inquired Mr. Buzzacott as the maid put down the compote of peaches on the table.
Concetta apologised. The ice-making machine in the village had broken down. There would be no ice till to-morrow.
"Too bad," said Mr. Buzzacott. "Troppo male, Concetta."
Under the palm trees, Barbara saw them: they pranced about, fighting. They were mounted on big dogs, and in the trees were enormous many-coloured birds.
"Goodness me, the child's asleep." Mrs. Topes was proffering the dish of peaches. "How much longer am I to hold this in front of your nose, Barbara?"
Barbara felt herself blushing. "I'm so sorry," she mumbled, and took the dish clumsily.
"Day-dreaming. It's a bad habit."