Oh, didn’t poor Jill used to jump!
Yes, by Jill I mean my brother. We had got tired of calling each other Regie and Bertie, and one night held a consultation in our attic bedroom.
“Your name,” said my brother, “shall be boiled down to plain Jack.”
“Well, Master Rupert Domville Ffoljambe-Foley Jillard Jones,” I replied, “if I’m to be boiled down to Jack, you shall be boiled down to Jill.”
“Oh, I don’t mind a bit. It’s short. But—a—isn’t Jill an old lady’s name?”
“Well, I rather think it is, because Jack and Jill went up the hill, you know, and I’ve seen pictures of them, and one was an old lady. But that doesn’t matter, does it?”
“No, Jack.”
“Silly thing, though, to go up a hill to fetch a pail of water. Was the well on top of the hill, I wonder?”
“I couldn’t say. But, Jack?”
“Yes, Jill.”