Ivy shook her head sadly. “I don’t understand you.” And her eyes were cold and unfriendly, Sên thought. But he tried once more. “Won’t you?” he asked with an effort. The zest had gone out of his voice, and its tone was flat and perfunctory.
“Sit on the floor, and pretend I’m three? No, thank you. Whatever are those?” she demanded—disapprovingly, Sên thought.
“Chinese kites,” he told her dully.
Almost a dozen were stacked in one corner—balloon-shaped bodies with bat-shaped wings.
“Practising for next Easter?” she queried a little superciliously. “Where are your eggs?”
“Oh—we’ll get the eggs; dozens and dozens of eggs,” Sên assured her.
Blanche gave a gurgle of delight and assaulted Sên’s ear with a damp rosebud kiss. Ivy saw him wince.
“It’s your own fault,” she told him. “Well, I’m off.”
“Tum back to tea,” Blanche said generously.
“Yes, cousin Ive—you must,” Dick added. “Mr. Sên is having his with us.”