Kenelm sat down again in the window-seat. He knew that Felicia was anxious about their mother, and he himself shared her anxiety. The queer code of fraternal secrecy made him refrain from showing any sign of this to his sister, however. He yawned a little, and said, rather brusquely:
"This rain's messing up the frost pretty well. There shouldn't be much left of it by now."
"Crocuses soon . . ." Felicia murmured. She began humming to an almost inaudible accompaniment on the piano:
"'Ring, ting, it is the merrie spring-time. . . .'"
The rain rolled dully down the clouded window-panes and spattered off the English-ivy leaves below the sill. They quivered up and down on pale stems—bright, waxed leaves, as shining as though they had been varnished.
Kirk drifted in and made his way to Felicia.
"She's better," he observed. "She said she was glad we were having fun." He frowned a little as he ran his finger reflectively down Felicia's sleeve. "But she's bothered. She has think-lines in her forehead. I felt 'em."
"You have a think-line in your own fore-
