"Do you know Jean?"—with great eagerness.
"Rather! I should think so! Hasn't she ever talked to you about Cousin Jem? If not, I'll pay her out."
The mocking grey eyes sparkled, then grew soft as they glanced down on Cyril's tiny white hand. Jem's oppositions of mood were almost as marked as those of Jean.
"O yes; I know. Jean told me. She said Cousin Jem was a sort of a cousin. And she likes him—you, I mean—ever so much. Next after Oswald, you know. And I think I shall like you next after Jean. And Evie said you were coming to stay with General Villiers. But—" with an elderly air—"I didn't know it was you, of course, at first: because Evie called you a boy."
Cyril was regarding, in his turn, the muscular brown hand beside his own, a hand of aristocratic outlines and powerful grasp, matching well the lithe muscular figure.
"Evie calls everybody boys."
"Does she? Who is Evie?"
"Oh, she's my sister. She's so pretty. I love Evie; only not like Jean." A pause, as if for reflection. "I mean to marry Jean, some day."
"Ah!" said Jem. "Have you told her so?"
"O no!" Cyril's voice had a sound of indignant surprise. "I haven't told anybody."