"Nothing that concerns you."
"Hanks of darning cotton, I do believe. I say, Jean, you must use an uncommon lot of old socks at the Rectory. Madame Collier's one earthly occupation is turning them over. I never find her at anything else; unless it is grubbing up stones in the garden."
"Stockings, you mean; not socks."
"Two varieties of the same genus. What are you hurrying for, now?"
"Aunt Marie will want me."
"Let her! I want you more."
"I can't wait, really. She will be vexed."
"Have you got to darn? I'll come and read to you, then."
Cyril had scarcely yet overtaken Jean in height. While actually almost a year her senior, he was commonly supposed to be the younger of the two. His make was so slight as to give an appearance of fragility, not inconsistent with a certain wiry vigour, but heightened by the girlish hands and pale complexion, not to speak of a face hatchet-like in thinness. Breadth of brow gave force to the latter, but the dark hair clustered still in thick waves; and the long-lashed violet eyes, though redeemed from insipidity by any amount of fun, lent him so soft and "pretty" an expression, that it was no wonder he had earned at school the nickname of "Missy."
This did not imply contempt or unpopularity. More than five years back, on first leaving Ripley Brow, with its enervating influences and unlimited petting, for the rougher world of school, Cyril had suffered much, and had had a hard battle to fight. Miss Devereux little guessed how much of real distress had been entailed upon the timid child by her previous policy, or how he might justly have blamed her for long months of misery. Happily, the check of a more invigorating atmosphere came in time to prevent life-long enfeeblement.