Kirk subsided against his brother's arm, and a "think-line" now became manifest on Kenelm's brow. "See me a story"--Kirk's own queer phrase--had been the demand during most of his eight years. It seemed as though he could never have enough of this detail of a world visible to every one but himself. He must know how everything looked--even the wind, which could certainly be _felt_, and the rain, and the heat of the fire. From the descriptions he had amassed through his unwearied questioning, he had pieced out for himself a quaint little world of color and light,--how like or unlike the actuality no one could possibly tell. "Blue is a cool thing, like water, or ice clinking in your glass," he would say, "and red's hot and sizzly, like the fire." "Very true," his informants would agree; but for all that, they could not be sure what his conception might be of the colors. Things were so confusing! There, for instance, were tomatoes. They were certainly very cool things, if you ate them sliced (when you were allowed), yet you were told that they were as red as red could be! And nothing could have been hotter than the blue tea-pot, when he picked it up by its spout; but that, to be sure, was caused by the tea. Yet the _hot_ wasn't any color; oh, dear! Ken had not practised the art of seeing stories for nothing. He plunged in with little hesitation, and with a grand flourish. "My tale is of kings, it is," he said; "ancient kings--Babylonian kings, if you must know. It was thousands and thousands of years ago they lived, and you'd never be able to imagine the wonderful cities they built. They had hanging gardens that were----" Felicia interrupted. "It's easy to tell where you got _this_ story. I happen to know where your marker is in the Ancient History."