"Like a sack of meal."
Eden broke into laughter. "I wish Meggie could hear you!"
"Why?"
"Can't you guess?"
Alayne could not bear it. He must be stopped. "Eden," she interrupted, in a harsh, dry voice, "it is time for your eggnog. I must make it." She rose and, in passing him, gave him a look of impassioned appeal. Her lips moved, forming the word, "Don't."
When the brothers were left alone, Renny demanded: "What do you mean?"
"Oh, nothing! Only that she seems to be a pet of Meggie's. But honestly, it's a deadly thing to be cooped up with one person all the time. That one face. That one voice. Those eyes. Even though you care a great deal for the person—feel all kinds of gratitude, as I do. Picture yourself here, between these four walls, day and night, with only Alayne!" With bright malice his eyes sought Renny's. They seemed to say: "You may be well—sound as one of your own horses—but look how I can torment you! What would you give to have what I have—and which is nothing to me?"
Renny said, imperturbably: "Well, you're improving, at any rate. That's the main thing."
If he were touched on the quick, he hid the pain well—red-headed devil!
Alayne brought the eggnog. Eden stirred it, gazing contemplatively into the yellow liquid. The two watched him, weak, unscrupulous, holding them, as it were, in the net of his mockery. There was a vibration in the air about them as if all three were antagonists, each of the other.
Renny began to talk, in a desultory fashion. News of his stables, news of the family. The uncles and Aunt Augusta stuck to the house pretty much because of the heat. Gran was well. Word had just come that Finch had passed his examinations. He was a happy boy. They'd make something of him yet!
At last he rose. "Now what about this greenery?
