Melian went off into a rippling peal.
“Gargoyles don’t live in vaults, Uncle Seward. They live on roofs, and towers.”
“Do they? Well, wherever they live, God’s good open English country is going to be the thing for you to-day, anyhow.”
“All safe. The other will keep.”
Mervyn dawdled over breakfast, absolutely contrary to his wont. His wont was to play with it; now he ate it. This bright presence turned a normally gloomy necessity into a fairy feast.
“Come and let’s potter round a bit,” he said, soon after they had done.
“Rather.”
Melian swung on her large hooded cloak, and they went up the step path to the sluice. The sheen of ice lay before them, running up in a far triangle to the distance of the woods.
“By the way, do you know how to skate?” said Mervyn.
“Yes, but I’m not great at it, and it makes my ankles horribly stiff.”