“Oh, now I’ve left my handkerchief in my pocket! Lend me yours, Cosimo——”
“Well, Amory——!”
They settled about the hearth, Cosimo Pratt with his shoulder-blades against Dorothy’s knees, Walter Wyron propping up Laura Beamish, Katie Deedes and Mr. Bielby on chairs, Dickie Lemesurier with the firelight shining on her peacock-feather yoke at one end of the fender, Amory curled up against the coal-box at the other.
“I say—Amory’s hair!——” Walter Wyron broke rapturously out, as Amory settled into her place.
“Quite unpaintable, Walter,” said Laura Beamish, peering over the edge of her hand.
“Suppose so—but isn’t it Venetian!——”
“Just put that green plate with the oranges in her lap——”
“Oh ... magnificent!”
It did indeed make an astonishing glow.