“O sir, is this—is this—” she couldn’t get any further just for a moment or two—
“Whatever you like to call it, dearie,” said Antonio, patting her on the head.
“And—and can you go through that great big beautiful looking-glass?”
Antonio and Barclay both laughed.
“A bull might,” said Barclay, “but I shouldn’t like to try.”
The furniture was chaste, and there was in the room a rich-toned piano, as well as a guitar. And this last was the weird wee man’s favourite instrument.
The two bedrooms were on the floor above, tiny, but cosy, clean, and sweet. Not much larger were they indeed than ships’ cabins, but each had a window that looked out to the sea.
. . . . . .
Antonio’s servant or valet had not yet arrived, but he himself was quite equal to the occasion. He not only made tea for the children, producing from a cupboard down below an immense cake, with fruit, but he afterwards, just as gloaming began to fall and shadows were creeping over the sea, just as distant ships lost the whiteness of their sails and turned grey and gloomy, took out his guitar and sang to them so softly and sweetly, that poor little innocent Phœbe was entranced.