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A voice from the window-seat at once reproached him.

“Not your great-aunt, Justin, your mother’s great-aunt, and it was her great-aunt Jane Eleanor, not her great-aunt Emily.”

Justin jumped.

Laura—as usual she was lying flat, her chin in her fists, her heels in the air—turned a page. She was no longer concerned. She had done her duty, and the Arabian Nights was more than absorbing.

“Oh, it was, was it?” said Justin. And then, recovering, “Shut up, Laura. It’s not your Aunt Emily!”

She lifted eyes clouded with her story.

“Eleanor—not Emily,” she corrected patiently. “Great-aunt Emily married Great-uncle Michael, and it’s their little boy you were so like when you were little. All except the nose.”

The friend chuckled.

“Where did you get all this from?” demanded Justin, overborne by the evidence.

“I don’t know—your mother told me,” said Laura vaguely. Then, without a change of tone—“Justin, would you have married Haiatalnefous, as well as the Princess of China if you’d been Camaralzaman?”