"You can--in all good ways," said her brother.
"One grows and one grows," she said, shaking her head knowingly, "and things are never the same again."
"They may be better," said Jack, valiantly doing his best to allow no sinking of spirits. "It would be a pretty bad look out if one could only look backwards."
Jim was unusually sober. As a rule, on such an occasion, nonsense was his vogue, and he and Gracie carried on like the children of those earlier days.
"If you ask me," said Gracie, venturing a flight towards olden times, "I believe old Jim here has got himself into the most awful scrape of his life, in spite of all your assertions to the contrary. I believe he's been and gone and lost one hundred thousand pounds at cards, and grandpa has quietly cut him off with a shilling over the usual pinch of snuff."
"No, I haven't. I've lost hardly anything, and I've got heaps of money, more than I ever had in my life before. I'll buy you a pony, if you like."
"All right! I don't mind. Sir George has a jolly one for sale; you know--Meg's Paddy. She's got too big for him, and he's just up to my feather-weight."
"We'll go along and see about him when we've been to the Mere and seen Mrs. Rimmer and Kattie. How's Kattie getting on?"
"She's a wild thing and as pretty as a rose. I'm afraid her mother worries about her. But it must be dreadfully lonely living here all the year round. Just look how grim and gray it all is. How would you like it yourself?"
"I'd Like it better than London," said Jim stoutly. "If I hadn't plenty to do I'd get sick of it all--streets and houses and houses and streets, and no end to them."