“I thought it was.” His tones had become extraordinarily glad. “No one could forget little Nan, who’d once known her. But Nan, you’ve grown older. What do you mean by it? It’s so uncalled for, so unexpected. You’re no longer the Princess Pepperminta that you were.”
Nan crossed the room in a romping bound and commenced pumping his arm up and down.
“It’s Billy, dear old Billy! You remember, Jehane; I’ve told you. Billy who sewed up father’s surplice, and Billy who tied knots in my hair, and Billy who, when I got angry, used to call me the Princess Pepperminta. You made yourself so detestable, Billy, that our village talks about you even now.”
“A doubtful compliment; but it’s ripping to see you—simply ripping.”
Jehane stood aside and watched them. She had heard Nan talk of Billy Barrington and how her father had tutored him for Oxford—but that must be twelve years back. She had never known him herself and had never been very curious about him. But now, as she watched, she felt the appeal of this big, broad-shouldered boy of thirty.
They were talking—talking of things beyond her knowledge, things which shut her out.
“And why didn’t you write in all these years? Father and I often mentioned you. In Cassingland you were an event. It wasn’t kind of you, Billy.”
“Things at home were in such a mess. I’d to start work at once. Somehow, with working so hard, other things faded out.”
“Poor Nan with the rest!”
“No, I remembered you. ‘Pon my honor I did, Nan; but I thought——”