"Please put me down," entreated Cyril, direfully afraid of seeming girlish.
The young man obeyed very gently, as if he were handling a piece of porcelain. There was something porcelain-like in the child's look. Cyril tottered, and caught at his new friend.
"Dizzy still, poor little man? Sit on this bank."
"I mustn't. Auntie says the grass is damp to-day. And I promised."
"Whew! Quite right to do as you are told. Well; you won't find me damp. I'll be your cushion."
He threw himself down, lifted Cyril on his knee, and encircled the child with kind arms. Cyril rested his curly head on the broad shoulder, with evident relief.
"That's better, eh? Now tell me your name. Cyril! What—little Devereux? I know all about you. And is Jean a friend of yours?"
"Jean? O yes! I do love her so."
Pretty, but hardly boy-like, the young man thought.
"She's a jolly little girl, isn't she?"