“I did. I wrote to dad about it.”
“Well, anyhow, he never told me.”
“That seems funny. How is he?”
“Oh, the same old besotted curmudgeon as ever.”
“Don’t, Jason. Dad’s dad for all his failings.”
“Yes, and Zyp’s Zyp for all hers.”
It gave me a thrill to hear the old name spoken familiarly, though by such reckless lips.
“Is—is she all right?”
“She’s Zyp, I tell you, and that means anything that’s sprightly and unquenchable. Let her alone for a jade; I’m sick of her name.”
Was it evident from this that his suit had not prospered? I looked at his changing eyes and my heart reeled with a sudden sick intoxication of hope. Was my reasoning to be all gone through with again? “Come,” I said, “let’s make for my place. A fellow-hand lives with me there.”