"Now don't nag. That subject is closed.
What about your hair. Do you know it is almost white?"
"And what more suitable for a maiden aunt? As that is to be my rôle for the future I may as well look the part."
"But you don't—that's what I complain of. The whiter your hair grows the younger your face gets. You're a contradiction, a paradox, you provoke conjecture, you're indecently noticeable. Mr. Ross would have loved to paint you."
Jan shook her head. "No, Daddie never wanted to paint anything about me except my arms."
"He'd want to paint you now," Meg insisted obstinately. "I know the sort of person he liked to paint."
"He never would paint people unless he did like them," Jan said, smiling as at some recollection. "Do you remember how he utterly refused to paint that rich Mr. Withells down at Amber Guiting?"
"I remember," and Meg laughed. "He said Mr. Withells was puffy and stippled."
Tony had been cold ever since he reached the Gulf of Lyons, and he wondered what could be the matter with him, for he never remembered to have felt like this before. He wondered miserably what could be the reason why he felt so torpid and shivery, disinclined to move, and yet so uncomfortable when he sat still.