The girl turned like a frightened aardvark, still holding the cromorne in her hand. Then she smiled.
"Weenix, Barnaby Bernard (1777-1829)," she said very slowly, "you started business as a publisher in London about 1797."
They looked at each other for a moment in silence. He was the first to speak.
"Miss Lange, Anne," he said, "let us go together to Lar—and be happy there—happy as two ais, or three-toed South American sloths."
She lowered her eyes.
"I will go with you Mr. Weenix-Barney," she said, "to the ends of the earth. But why to Lar? Why not to Wem?"
"Because," said the young man, "Lar is the capital of Laristan, in 27 degrees, 30 minutes N., 180 miles from Shiraz, and contains an old bazaar consisting of four arcades each 180 feet long."
Their eyes met, and she placed her hands in his.
And, from the woods, came the mellow whinnying of a herd of vip, the wool of which is highly valued for weaving.