"Do tell me, Uncle Tony."
I, who have seen things far more idiotic a thousand times, racked my brain for an answer that would satisfy the child.
"Well, my dear," I began, "your father and mother, when they were engaged----"
She burst out: "But they were young. It isn't the same thing. Aunt Auriol's as old as anything. And Colonel Lackaday's about sixty."
"My dear Evadne," said I. "I happen to know that Colonel Lackaday is thirty-eight."
Thirteen shrugged its slim shoulders. "It's all the same," it said.
We went to the net-covered wall of ripe and beauteous temptation, trampling over Jenkins's beds of I know not what, and ate forbidden fruit. At least Evadne did, until, son of Adam, I fell.
"Do have a bite. It's lovely. And I've left you the blushy side."
What could I do? There she stood, fair, slim, bobbed-haired, green-kirtled, serious-eyed, carelessly juicy-lipped, holding up the peach. I, to whom all wall-fruit is death, bit into the side that blushed. She anxiously watched my expression.
"Topping, isn't it?"