"Dad!"
They pressed about him, as vines about an oak.
"Hang it, I swear that this shall be the last hunt. I'm rich. We'll get rid of all these brutes and spend the rest of the years seeing the show places. I'm a bit tired myself of jungle fodder. We'll go to Paris, and Berlin, and Rome, and Vienna. And you, Kit, shall go and tell Rodin that you've inherited the spirit of Gerome. And you, Winnie, shall make a stab at grand opera."
Winnie gurgled her delight, but her sister searched her father's eyes. She did not quite like the way he said those words. His voice lacked its usual heartiness and spontaneity.
"Where did you get this medal, father?" she asked.
[Illustration: Where did you get this medal?]
"That's what I started out to tell you."
"Were you afraid we might wish to wear it or have it made over?" laughed Winnie, who never went below the surface of things.