Brendon was silent. There was the same airy grace of movement, the same deep brown hair and alabaster skin. She had all the fascination of being absolutely perplexing in this respect. He saw his father, calling to him from an icy white tunnel, beckoning to him. Buried under various ancestral sixteenths, smothered under modern thought, liberty of action and bewildering variety of flesh-pots, it was still alive to the extent that it needed only his present state to resuscitate it in all its peculiar force. He watched her, savoring her curious attention. “Get you a cold one?” “No thanks. He moved to one side, bowing and gesturing to the door. “May I enquire,” he asked smoothly, “in what way my appearance contributes to your amusement? If there is a joke I should like to share it. Sheppard.
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