"You're not playing," Kenelm said; "and they're sandal shoon."
Felicia wrinkled her nose slightly at him, patted the warm brown of Kirk's nearest leg, and dashed into the air of "Rolling down to Rio." Kenelm joined in vigorously—it was a song he liked to sing—and Kirk chuckled appreciatively at the armadillo "dilloing in his armor." Half-way through the second "Ro-o-o-o-oll," when Kenelm was achieving startling coloratura effects at the top of his voice, Felicia stopped like a shot.
"Good gracious! Mother's lying down with a headache," she said. "I'd quite forgotten."
"Why didn't you tell a fellow?" Kenelm exclaimed, a little breathless after his flight of notes; "that's a mean shame. Cut along, Kirk, and tell her we're sorry. Here—here I am; slide down me."
Kirk descended from the piano by way of his brother's arms, got his bearings at the doorway, and was gone like a shadow up the stairs, his hand safely on the balustrade.
"I hate her to have headaches," Felicia said, swinging about a little on the piano-stool. "Poor dear! so often. She never used to."
