“There is something to be said for the lady-like theory after all,” she admitted. Ann Veronica stood in the twilight room staring at the door that had slammed upon her aunt, her pocket-handkerchief rolled tightly in her hand. She had very few clear memories before a particular day in the library, when they had finished one of her first reading lessons. “There’s the classes,” said Constance, the well-informed. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. Bulging out more in the middle than at the two extremities, it resembled an enormous cask set on its end, —a sort of Heidelberg tun on a large scale,—and this resemblance was increased by the small circular aperture—it hardly deserved to be called a door—pierced, like the bung-hole of a barrell, through the side of the structure, at some distance from the ground, and approached by a flight of wooden steps. As silent as she had remained about who had brought her home last night.
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