There was a moment's pregnant silence, during which Leonie turned round and snuffled into the great man's collar, and he frowned above the russet head as he drew a block of paper and pencil towards him.
"What dreams, darling?"
"Don' know—dweams I dweam!"
The specialist sat still for a second and then laughed, the great kind laugh of a man with a big heart who adores children.
"Let's play a game, Leonie! You tell me about the dreams, and I'll tell you about my new motor-car, and the one who tells best will get a big sweet!"
With a child's sudden change of mood Leonie sat up, swinging her black silk legs to and fro, her eyes dancing, her lips parted over the even little teeth.
"I love sweets!" said she. "You begin!"
"My car's grey!" said Sir Jonathan Cuxson. "What colour are your dreams?"
"Black!" was the unexpectedly decisive reply. "Black with lots of wed—wet wed—and gween eyes—lots and lots of eyes—and—and soft things I can't see, and—noises like kit—kit—kitty makes when she purrs!"
"Yes?"