Joey Bettany sat on the fence that railed in the garden of Die Rosen, her sister’s chalet, whistling like a blackbird, and frowning profoundly. It was a bright, sunny day at the end of April, and a tiny fresh breeze tossed her uncovered black mop to a tangle that she would regret later. At present, she was so deep in thought about other things, that she had no time to worry about her hair.
Tall and slim was Jo, with bright black eyes, set in a pointed face that was pale but healthy. In spite of her sixteen years, she looked more like fourteen, and her attitude on the fence—long, brown-stockinged legs coiled round the lower rail—bore this out. Once she had been delicate, but long years in the dry, health-giving atmosphere of the Tyrolean Alps had changed all that, and nothing proved it more surely than her position out there, with only a blazer over her deep-blue frock, worn as a sign that holidays were still in existence. A patter of small feet made her turn round, nearly overbalancing as she did so; and a sweet, high-pitched voice cried, ‘Oh, Joey—oh, Joey!’