“I think not. Not to your extent, anyhow. But I quite see your point of view. Now will you see mine? And Eileen’s? And all the others? Anyhow, will you think it over, so that by the time we’re married you’ll be ready to be friends?”
Molly shook her head.
“It’s no use, Eddy. Don’t let’s talk about it any more. Come and play coon-can; I do like it such a lot better than bridge; it’s so much sillier.”
CHAPTER XIII.
MOLLY.
EDDY next Sunday collected a party to row up to Kew. They were Jane Dawn, Bridget Hogan, Billy Raymond, Arnold Denison, Molly and himself, and they embarked in a boat at Crabtree Lane at two o’clock, and all took turns of rowing except Bridget, who, as has been observed before, was a lily of the field, and insisted on remaining so. She, Molly, and Eddy may be called the respectable-looking members of the party; Jane, Arnold, and Billy were sublimely untidy, which Eddy knew was a pity, because of Molly, who was always a daintily arrayed, fastidiously neat child. But it did not really matter. They were all very happy. The others made a pet and plaything of Molly, whose infectious, whole-hearted chuckle and naïve high spirits pleased them. She and Eddy decided to live in a river-side house, and made selections as they rowed by.
“You’d be better off in Soho,” said Arnold.
“Eddy would be nearer his business, and nearer the shop we’re going to start presently. Besides, it’s more select. You can’t avoid the respectable resident, up the river.”
“The cheery non-resident, too, which is worse,” added Miss Hogan. “Like us. The river on a holiday is unthinkable. We were on it all Good Friday last year, which seems silly, but I suppose we must have had some wise purpose. Why was it, Billy? Do you remember? You came, didn’t you? And you, Jane. And Eileen and Cecil, I think. Anyhow never again. Oh yes, and we took some poor starved poet of Billy’s—a most unfortunate creature, who proved, didn’t he, to be unable even to write poetry. Or, indeed, to sit still in a boat. One or two very narrow shaves we had I remember. He’s gone into Peter Robinson’s since, I believe, as walker. So much nicer for him in every way. I saw him there last Tuesday. I gave him a friendly smile and asked how he was, but I think he had forgotten his past life, or else he had understood me to be asking the way to the stocking department, for he only replied, “Hose, madam?” Then I remembered that that was partly why he had failed to be a poet, because he would call stockings hose, and use similar unhealthy synonyms. So I concluded with pleasure that he had really found his vocation, the one career where such synonyms are suitable, and, in fact, necessary.”
“He’s a very nice person, Nichols,” Billy said; “he still writes a little, but I don’t think he’ll ever get anything taken. He can’t get rid of the idea that he’s got to be elegant. It’s a pity, because he’s really got a little to say.”