“It is of no use, Miss Stanforth,” said Cheriton, when she complained to him of her difficulties. “Alvar does not like walking out with me in an ‘Ulster’ when the wind is cold, so he endeavoured to teach me to wear one of those marvellous cloaks which they all throw about their shoulders; but I can only get it over my head, and under my feet, and everywhere that it ought not to be.”
“Well,” said Alvar, “you would not let me go to Hazelby in my cloak; you said that the little boys would laugh at me.”
“But a great coat,” said Cherry, “is a rational kind of garment that can’t look odd anywhere.”
“That is as you think,” said Alvar; “but I do not care what you wear, if you like it. You will not certainly look like a Spaniard even in the cloak.”
“A great coat,” said Mr Stanforth, “is one of those graceful garments which have commended themselves to all ages. I do not know what early tradition was followed by the inventors of Noah’s Arks in the case of that patriarch—”
“Now, Mr Stanforth, that is too hard,” interrupted Cherry. “At least it has pockets.”
“So many,” said Alvar, “that what you want is always in another one.”
“Alvar, that cloak is your one weakness. You clung to it in England, and you put it on the moment you landed in Spain.”
“Cheriton thinks it is a seal-skin,” said Mr Stanforth smiling.
“Seal-skin,” said Alvar. “No, it is cloth and silk.”