Fan, who had recovered her composure, although still a little “teary about the lashes,” answered:
“And I am equally sure that I shall never want to—change my name. I have Arthur to love and—and to think of, and that will be enough to make me happy.”
“And I shall get a cat,” said Mary, in a broken voice, and ostentatiously wiping her eyes, “and devote myself to it, and love it with all the strength of my ardent nature, and that will be enough to make me happy. I shall name it Constance Fan, out of compliment to you two, and feed it on the most expensive canaries. Of course it will be a very beautiful cat and very intelligent, with opinions of its own about the sense of humour and other deep questions.”
Constance looked offended, while Fan laughed uncomfortably. Mary was satisfied; she had turned the tables on her persecutor and provoked a little tempest to vary the monotony of life at the seaside. Without saying more they got up and moved towards the town, it being near their luncheon hour. Fan lagged behind reading, or pretending to read, as she walked.
“Oh, let's stay and see this race,” said Mary, pausing beside a bench on the beach near an excited group of idlers, mostly boys, with one white-headed old man in the midst, who was arranging a racing contest between one youngster mounted on a small, sleepy-looking, longhaired donkey, and his opponent, dirty as to his face and argumentative, seated on one of those archaeological curiosities commonly called “bone-shakers,” which are occasionally to be seen at remote country places. But the preliminaries were not easily settled, and Constance grew impatient.
“I can't stay,” she said. “I have a letter to write before lunch.”
“All right, go on,” said Mary, “and I'll wait for that lazy-bones Fan.”
As soon as Constance had gone Fan quickened her steps.
“Mary,” she spoke, coming to the other's side, “will you promise me something?”
“What is it, dear?” said her friend, looking into her face, surprised to see how flushed it was.