"Cyril, don't be absurd."
"I'm not. It's other folk that are absurd. What are you going to do with yourself this afternoon? You ought to be seen."
"As if anybody in London cared for my looks! Do talk sensibly."
"I'll try." Cyril sat down in an easy attitude, facing Jean. "You haven't told me yet—are you pleased to see me again? After such an age! I told aunt Sybella that go home I would this summer; and if she chose to stay away, I should go alone. So she cried and gave in. Crying doesn't mean much with her. Just a little ebullition of feeling. Such rot! Tearing over the Continent for nothing. I've seen ruined castles enough to last for twenty years. Well, you haven't told me yet—are you pleased?"
"You don't allow one a chance to say anything. Cyril, I do believe you never will grow up."
"Grow up! I'm five foot ten and three-quarters, and not narrow in proportion. How many extra yards do you want? Jem is no more; and Oswald is only five foot eleven and a half."
"Oswald would make two of you!" with a disdainful glance.
"Can't help not being corpulent. Is that what you want? I've tried no end of processes, and they don't answer. People are not all made alike, you know."
"I suppose not," Jean answered, dimly aware that her quondam slave was no longer absolutely subservient as of old. It had not been his wont to jest over any expression of opinion from her. "Where is Evelyn now?"
"Didn't you know? Staying at the Métropole; and she wants you to meet her at the Academy this afternoon. I'm to take you there. It's all right—Evelyn has settled things. Didn't you know she was in Town?"