She said to the little boys mischievously,
"What did Mother say? Do you find it very interesting?"
Paul and Mark stared hard at the very dull photograph of a cliff and a
plain and not even a single person or donkey in it, and gave
up the riddle. Mother certainly _had_ spoken to them in that
hide-it-away-from-the-children voice, and yet there was nothing there.
Marise knew that they felt somehow that Mother had unfairly slipped out
between their fingers, as grown-ups are always doing. Well, it wasn't
fair. She hated taking advantage of them like that. It was a sort of sin
against their awakening capacity to put two and two together and make a
human total, and understand what went on about them.
But it hadn't been against _their_ capacity to put two and two together
that she had instinctively thrown up that warding-off arm, which hadn't
at all warded off attention, but rather drawn it hard and scrutinizing,
in spite of those down-dropped sharp eyes. Well, there was no sum he
could do with only two, and slight probability he would ever get the
other two to put with it . . . whatever the other two might be.
Mr. Welles' pleasant old voice said, "It's a very pretty picture, I'm
sure. They certainly have very fine views about the Eternal City. I envy
you your acquaintance with all those historic spots.
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