"Eve," he asked casually, "Eve, you're not changing your mind, are
you, about Nunko-Nono? And John Ellbertson? Good old John Ellbertson,"
he repeated feelingly. "Eve!" he quickened with sudden sharpness.
"Surely nothing has happened to make you change your mind about
Nunko-Nono? And good old John Ellbertson?"

"Oh--no--Father," said little Eve Edgarton. Indolently she withdrew
her eyes from her father's and stared off Nunko-Nonoward--in a hazy,
geographical sort of a dream. "Good old John Ellbertson--good old John
Ellbertson," she began to croon very softly to herself. "Good old
John Ellbertson. How I do love his kind brown eyes--how I do--"

"Brown eyes?" snapped her father. "Brown? John Ellbertson's got the
grayest eyes that I ever saw in my life!"

Without the slightest ruffle of composure little Eve Edgarton accepted
the correction. "Oh, has he?" she conceded amiably. "Well, then, good
old John Ellbertson--good old John Ellbertson--how I do love his
kind--gray eyes," she began all over again.

Palpably Edgarton shifted his standing weight from one foot to the
other. "I understood--your mother," he asserted a bit defiantly.

"Did you, dear? I wonder?" mused little Eve Edgarton.

"Eh?" jerked her father.

Still with the vague geographical dream in her eyes, little Eve
Edgarton pointed off suddenly toward the open lid of her steamer