“Then why not begin? I shall go away if you don't begin.”
Frere rubbed his brows. “Well, have you read—have you read 'Robinson Crusoe?'”—as if the idea was a brilliant one.
“Of course I have,” returned Sylvia, pouting. “Read it?—yes. Everybody's read 'Robinson Crusoe!'”
“Oh, have they? Well, I didn't know; let me see now.” And pulling hard at his pipe, he plunged into literary reflection.
Sylvia, sitting beside him, eagerly watching for the happy thought that never came, pouted and said, “What a stupid, stupid man you are! I shall be so glad to get back to papa again. He knows all sorts of stories, nearly as many as old Danny.”
“Danny knows some, then?”
“Danny!”—with as much surprise as if she said “Walter Scott!” “Of course he does. I suppose now,” putting her head on one side, with an amusing expression of superiority, “you never heard the story of the 'Banshee'?”
“No, I never did.”
“Nor the 'White Horse of the Peppers'?”
“No.”