“Do you think it is always funny?” inquired the child, her deep, grey eyes on his face.
He smiled:
“Yes, I do; but sometimes the joke in on one’s self. And then, although it is still a funny world, from the world’s point of view, you, of course, fail to see the humour of it.... I don’t suppose you understand.”
“I do,” nodded the child, with the ghost of a smile.
“Really? Well, I was afraid I’d been talking nonsense, but if you understand, it’s all right.”
They both laughed.
“Do you want to look at some books?” he suggested.
“I’d rather listen to you.”
He smiled:
“All right. I’ll begin at this corner of the room and tell you about the things in it.” And for a while he rambled lazily on about old French chairs and Spanish chests, and the panels of Mille Fleur tapestry which hung behind them; the two lovely pre-Raphael panels in their exquisite ancient frames; the old Venetian velvet covering triple choir-stalls in the corner; the ivory-toned 72 marble figure on its wood and compos pedestal, where tendrils and delicate foliations of water gilt had become slightly irridescent, harmonising with the patine on the ancient Chinese garniture flanking a mantel clock of dullest gold.