Jean stood looking at him. He was a lovely little boy, but Jean had hardly reached an age appreciative of mere beauty. The sweet wistful eyes and delicate outlines were lost upon her. Jean's notion of a boy was of something reckless, dashing, untidy, headlong, noisy—of Oswald, in fact. This dainty small creature, with lace collar and spotless hands, by no means answered to the description.
"Where is your home?"
"Over there."
"Where? What—'The Brow!' Why, what's your name?"
"I'm Cyril John Devereux."
A pause of astonishment.
"And I'm Jean Trevelyan. But you're not—Cyril!" said Jean. "Aunt Marie said Cyril was ten years old."
"I'm ten next August."
"Ten! Stand up—straight."
Cyril obeyed.