Stella stood dominant before him. Her grey eyes flashed; her proud, upcurving mouth was slightly curled: her chin was like the chin of a marble goddess, and yet with that brown hair lapping her wide shoulders, with those long legs, lean-flanked and supple, she was more like some heroic boy.
“Yes, you can be proud enough,” said Michael. “But you’ve got something to be proud of. What have I got?”
“You’ve got me,” said Stella fiercely.
“Why, yes, I suppose I have,” Michael softly agreed. “Let’s talk about your first appearance.”
“I was talking about it to mother when a man called Prescott came.”
“Prescott?” said Michael. “I seem to have heard mother speak about him. I wonder when it was. A long time ago, though.”
“Well, whoever he was,” said Stella, “he brought mother bad news.”
“How do you know?”
“Have you ever seen mother cry?”
“Yes, once,” said Michael. “It was when I was talking through my hat about the war.”