"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?"

"Yum, yum," said I.

"Isn't it?" she said, taking back the peach.

That's the beauty of childhood. It demands no elaborate expression.
Simplicity is its only coinage. A rhapsody on the exquisiteness of the