She raised her hands imploringly.
“Take it. I yield. The professor has got possession of a hundred harmless illustrations, which he puts to the torture, and then gibbets.”
“To be worth anything an illustration should be accurate.”
Anne went to the rescue.
“We may struggle after truth, but accuracy—! Half-an-hour hence, and unprepared, I defy the professor to repeat this conversation without an error.”
“Facts, facts!”
“Facts come to us thick with paint. Who will describe the view before us? One person says ‘Beastly weather,’ another is eloquent on the loveliness of silver-grey. What, then?”
“The fact remains that it rains,” said the professor, with a bow. He was forbearing to Anne.
“Not a drop.” Hugh turned round from contemplation, his laugh vigorous and infectious.
“The ostrich is forfeit,” confessed the professor gallantly. “To some eyes it appears that he buries his head, others behold him running upright. He is gone, and science with him. Am I forgiven?”