mother's face were delightful to Nicky. So was her hair. It was cold,
with a funny sort of coldness that made your fingers tingle when you
touched it; and it smelt like the taste of Brazil nuts.

Frances saw the likeness of her smile quiver on Nicky's upper lip. It
broke and became Nicky's smile that bared his little teeth and curled up
the corners of his blue eyes. (His blue eyes and black brown hair were
Anthony's.) It wasn't reasonable to suppose that Nicky had earache when
he could smile like that.

"I'm afraid," she said, "you're a little humbug. Run to the terrace and
see if Grannie and the Aunties are coming."

He ran. It was half a child's run and half a full-grown boy's.

Then Mrs. Anthony addressed her daughter.

"Why did you say his ear's aching when it isn't?"

"Because," said Dorothy, "it _is_ aching."

She was polite and exquisite and obstinate, like Anthony.

"Nicky ought to know his own ear best. Go and tell him he's not to stand
on the top of the wall. And if they're coming wave to them, to show
you're glad to see them."

"But--Mummy--I'm not."

She knew it was dreadful before she said it. But she had warded off