"Crocuses soon ..." Felicia murmured. She began humming to an almost
inaudible accompaniment on the piano:

"'Ring, ting, it is the merrie springtime....'"

The rain rolled dully down the clouded window-panes and spattered off
the English-ivy leaves below the sill. They quivered up and down on pale
stems--bright, waxed leaves, as shining as though they had been
varnished.

Kirk drifted in and made his way to Felicia.

"She's better," he observed. "She said she was glad we were having
fun." He frowned a little as he ran his finger reflectively down
Felicia's sleeve. "But she's bothered. She has think-lines in her
forehead. I felt 'em."

"You have a think-line in your own forehead," said Felicia, promptly
kissing it away. "Don't _you_ bother."

"Where's Ken?" Kirk demanded.

"In the window-seat."

Thither Kirk went, a tumble of expectancy, one hand before him and his
head back. He leaped squarely upon Ken, and made known his wishes at
once. They were very much what Kenelm expected.

"See me a story--a long one!"