Could anything be sweeter than a father who says all those little, lover things to one? I think not.
I laid my cheek against his hand. He has nice hands, quick to soothe and caress. Nothing is quite unendurable with father near.
"You should be a poet," I told him. "Sometimes I think you are, instead of a historian. Nothing in the world can ever make me believe that you write deadly-dull books for deadly-dull people to read. Do they read them?" I inquired as an afterthought.
"Mavis!" he shook his finger at me, in mock indignation.
"Well," I answered truthfully, "mediaeval history must be dull. I'm sure I can't remember any of it!"
Here our argument, but half commenced, ceased. For father, with an exclamation, plunged his hands deep into his pockets, and after a time produced a slim, sober volume.
"Here it is!" he cried in triumph.
"Here is what?" I asked in some astonishment. "How you do dash about, father. Your mind turns all sorts of corners. What is it—mediaeval history?"
"Certainly not, minx! Poetry!"
"Poetry!"