‘It’s like the halls of Ivor,’ said Mysie, awestruck by the loneliness; ‘no dog, nor horse, nor cow, not even a goose,’
‘And what a place to sketch!’ cried Miss Vincent. ‘Oh, Gillian, we must come here another day.’
‘Oh, may we gather the flowers?’ exclaimed the insatiable Primrose.
‘Those poetic narcissuses would be delicious for the choir screen,’ added Gillian.
‘Poetic narcissus—poetic grandmother,’ said Wilfred. ‘It’s old butter and eggs.’
‘I say!’ cried Mysie. ‘Look, Ivy—I know that pair of fighting lions—ain’t these some of your arms over the door?’
‘By which you mean a quartering of our shield,’ said Ivinghoe. ‘Of course it is the Clipp bearing. Or, two lions azure, regardant combatant, their tails couped.’
‘Two blue Kilkenny cats, who have begun with each other’s tails,’ commented Jasper.
‘Ivinghoe glared a little, but respected the sixth form, and Gillian added—
‘They clipped them! Then did this place belong to our ancestors?’