"Well, listen. If he does, he shan't take your things, your pretty twinkly things. I won't let him."
Jan stood as if turned to stone.
"He took Mummy's. I saw him; I couldn't stop him, I was so little. But she said—she said it twice before she went away from that last bungalow—she said: 'Take care of Auntie Jan, Tony; don't let Daddie take her things.' So I won't."
Tony was sitting up. His room was all in darkness; two candles were lit on Jan's dressing-table. He could see her, but she couldn't see him.
She came to him, stooped over him, and laid her cheek against his so that they were both veiled with her hair. "Darling, I don't think poor Daddie would want to take my things. You must try not to think hardly of Daddie."
Tony parted the veil of hair with a gentle hand so that they could both see the candles.
"You don't know my Daddie ... much," he said, "do you?"
Jan shuddered.
"I saw him," he went on in his queer little unemotional voice. "I saw him take all her pretty twinkly things; and her silver boxes. I'm glad I sleep here."
"Did she mind much?" Jan whispered.