“Perhaps,” Tom answered. “I have two cousins by that name, or, rather, second cousins. One I call Rena, and the other Irene; their fathers were brothers. I hear from Rena that they have engaged board for the summer with a Mrs. Parks, and will be here to-morrow on the four o’clock train.”
Reginald resumed his knife and fork and said, with an attempt to laugh:
“Oh, yes, I see, and fancy it was Miss Rena who had something to do with your coming to Oakfield. What did you say of the other young lady, Irene you called her? Is she your cousin, too?”
“Second, I told you, same as Rena,” Tom answered, beginning to grow hot with a feeling that he was acting a lie by not telling the truth at once. “If Rex keeps on I shall tell him in spite of my promise,” he thought. But Reginald asked no more questions, nor did he in any way refer to the subject again that evening. He was, however, more than usually quiet, and looked the next morning as if he had not slept well.
“He is taking it hard,” Tom thought, as he watched him trying to seem natural and talk of what they would do that day.
“We might go into the billiard-room this morning and knock the balls round a little,” he said; “then in the afternoon I’ll take you for a drive over the hills, and—er—er—perhaps after dinner you will want to call upon your cousins—upon Miss Rena, and—er——”
He didn’t say “Irene.” The name seemed to cleave to the roof of his mouth, and he couldn’t speak it.
“Certainly,” Tom said. “I’ve not seen Rena since she came from Europe.”
“Oh-h! was she there with her cousin?” Reginald asked, and Tom answered:
“Yes, they were both there awhile,” and felt himself a worse deceiver than he had charged Rena with being.