“Quite well, thanks. I’ve been awfully busy,” Trevelyan called back, and picking up his oars began pulling off with long steady strokes that speedily put distance between himself and the punt. But he could row and talk, too. He seemed bent on being as agreeable to Betty as, earlier in the afternoon, he had to Babbie. When they reached the landing-place that had been appointed as a rendezvous he still kept close beside her, and on the train and the ’bus he was a most attentive escort. Betty, who was very sleepy, wished at last that he would talk to somebody else and let her have a little cat-nap in peace. She also wanted to ask John or Billy Benson whether his first name was Lestrange, but she couldn’t, with him close beside her. Very likely Babbie or Babe would know. It was certainly a queer first name.
“Who’s going to see us off in the morning?” asked Babbie, as the men made ready to say good-night. “John, you will, of course.”
“I’m not sure,” returned John stiffly, avoiding Babbie’s eyes. “Quarter to ten is very early for London.”
“Nonsense!” retorted Billy Benson cheerfully. “I’ll get you up in time. I’m coming to the station, and so is Trevelyan, aren’t you, old man?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Trevelyan, who was still standing close by Betty.
“Well, did everybody have a good time?” asked Madeline, when they were indoors.
“I did,” said Babbie quickly, “until I got caught with Mr. Dwight.”
“I did,” agreed Betty, “until I got sleepy and kept yawning in Mr. Trevelyan’s face, in spite of myself. By the way, a queer thing happened while we were rowing down the river. Do any of you happen to know his first name?”
“It’s Arthur,” said Babbie promptly. “I saw it on the invitation that Mr. Benson had to the countess’s ball. It was addressed in care of Mr. Arthur Trevelyan.”
“That’s queer.” Betty repeated what the man in the punt had said.