Cynthia, slightly perplexed, said slangily that she didn't "get" her; and Jacqueline admitted that she herself didn't know what she had meant.
They gossiped for a while, then Cynthia ended:
"I'll see you to-morrow night, won't I? And listen, you little white mouse, I get what you mean by 'Eddie'."
"Do you?"
"Yes. Shall I see you at the dance?"
"Yes, and 'Eddie,' too. Good-bye."
Jacqueline laughed again, then shivered slightly and hung up the receiver.
Back before her bedroom fire once more, Grenville's volume on ancient armour across her knees, she turned the illuminated pages absently, and gazed into the flames. What she saw among them apparently did not amuse her, for after a while she frowned, shrugged her shoulders, and resumed her reading.
But the XV century knights, in their gilded or silvered harness, had Desboro's lithe figure, and the lifted vizors of their helmets always disclosed his face. Shields emblazoned with quarterings, plumed armets, the golden morions, banner, pennon, embroidered surtout, and the brilliant trappings of battle horse and palfry, became only a confused blur of colour under her eyes, framing a face that looked back at her out of youthful eyes, marred by the shadow of a wisdom she knew about—alas—but did not know.