“No; of course; but, it’s the same principle.... Well, anyhow you like them, don’t you?” said Eddy shifting his ground.
“Oh, yes, I do. But I expect they think me a duffer. I don’t know anything about their things, you see. They’re awfully nice to me.”
“That seems odd, certainly. And they may come and visit us at the Osiers, mayn’t they?”
“Of course. And we’ll all have tea on the balcony there. Oh, do let’s begin turning out the people that live there at once.”
Meanwhile Jane and Arnold and Billy, walking along the embankment, when they had discussed the colour of the water, the prospects of the weather, the number of cats on the wall, and other interesting subjects, commented on Molly. Jane said, “She’s a little sweetmeat. I love her yellow eyes and her rough curly hair. She’s like a spaniel puppy we’ve got at home.”
Billy said, “She’s quite nice to talk to, too. I like her laugh.”
Arnold said, maliciously, “She’ll never read your poetry, Billy. She probably only reads Tennyson’s and Scott’s and the Anthology of Nineteenth Century Verse.”
“Well,” said Billy, placidly, “I’m in that. If she knows that, she knows all the best twentieth century poets. You seem to be rather acrimonious about her. Hadn’t she read your ‘Latter Day Leavings,’ or what?”
“I’m sure I trust not. She’d hate them.... It’s all very well, and I’ve no doubt she’s a very nice little girl—but what does Eddy want with marrying her? Or, indeed, anyone else? He’s not old enough to settle down. And marrying that spaniel-child will mean settling down in a sense.”
“Oh, I don’t know. She’s got plenty of fun, and can play all right.”