“Rubbish.”
“Well then, you ought to have a long gray beard like father. You’re not old enough.”
“I’ve sometimes thought that myself.”
“Billy’s always been young for his age,” said Nan; “he’s minus twenty now.”
But, as they walked on, Jehane was saying to herself, “Then he was only coming to see father, as everybody comes! It wasn’t my face that drew him.”
They strewed the cushions on the floor of the punt. Barrington took the pole and Jehane seated herself in front so that she could face him. All that he should see of Nan’s attractions was the back of her golden head—Jehane had arranged all that.
They swung out into mid-stream unsteadily; Barrington was struggling to recover a forgotten art. Their direction was erratic. They nearly fouled a returning eight; the maledictions of the cox, each stinging epithet of whose abuse politely ended in “sir,” drew unwelcome attention to their wandering progress. When they had collided with the opposite bank, Nan stood up and took the pole herself. Jehane was in luck.
She had often pictured such a scene to herself—a man, herself, and a punt on the river; in these pictures she had never included Nan. She had heard herself brilliantly conversing, saying amusing things that had made the man laugh, saying deep things that had made him solemn; then, presently she had ceased to torment him, his arms had gone about her, and she had lain a fluttering wild thing on his breast.
Now, in reality, she had nothing to say. When he spoke, she gave him short answers. She was not mistress of herself. She trailed her hands in the water and was afraid to look up, lest he should guess the tumult in her heart.
The punt had turned out of the main stream into the Cherwell, and was stealing between narrow banks. Jehane knew that she was appearing sullen; she always appeared like that with men. In her mind’s eye she saw herself acting the other part of gay, responsive woman of the world. She was angry with herself.