"Supposing Jean consents. There's that little point to be considered. I'll tell you one thing—Jean will never marry a man to whom she can't look up. Do you understand? You must grow into a real man before you speak—strong and brave and good—a man she can respect and lean upon, not a twopence-halfpenny creature in a coat."
The words sank deep; deeper than Jem knew.
"Yes, I will!" said Cyril.
"And don't mind waiting. Don't be easily disheartened, or get into a tiff and throw it up, because she isn't to be had at the first go. If she's worth winning, she's worth waiting for."
Cyril heaved a sigh. Sybella was always giving vent to audible expirations of air, and the trick is infectious.
"I think Jean is just exactly like Rachel," he said. "Rachel was so beautiful, you know."
Jem's expression became comical. Had he uttered his thought, he would have said, "She's a queer little scarecrow, but she'll improve." Happily he was spared the need for a reply.
"Hallo! There she is! Wait and see if she knows me. We've not met for two years."
Jean advanced slowly, recognising Cyril, and perplexed at his position. Cyril would have struggled up, but for Jem's grasp. When Jean came near, a flash of light appeared in her eyes.
"Cousin Jem!" she cried.