“Because,” he answered, “the day is very fair.”
“We are indebted then to the sun?”
He avoided the obvious pun and nodded.
“To the sun, the month, the time of day, and—a slight matter of temperament.”
The girl lifted her eyes to his with a smile. The aunt did not repeat again her salient question; instead she frowned.
“I have my two eyes,” she answered enigmatically.
“The world is your debtor,” murmured Barnes, chivalrously.
“Aunty, you ought to think of nothing but father,” broke in the girl. “He will soon wake up in the dark with the old question on his lips.”
There came to them even then the silvery tinkle of a bell from upstairs.
“Oh, dear,” gasped Aunt Philomela.