‘Stuff!’ said Eve peevishly. ‘Not stuff at all,’ argued Barbara, ‘nor’—intercepting another exclamation—’no, dear, nor fiddlesticks. He has been talking to me in the parlour. He is sincerely attached to you. He is an odd man, and views things in quite a different way from others, but I think I made out that he wanted you to be his wife.’ ‘Barbara,’ said Eve, with great emphasis, ‘nothing in the world would induce me to submit to be called Mrs. Squash.’ ‘My dear, if the name is the only objection, I think he will not mind changing it. Indeed, it is only proper that he should. As he and you will have Morwell, it is of course right that a Jordan should be here, and—to please the Duke and you—he will, I feel sure, gladly assume our name. I agree with you that, though Coyshe is not a bad name, it is not a pretty one. It lends itself to corruption.’ ‘Babb is worse,’ said Eve, still sulky. ‘Yes, darling, Babb is ugly, and it is the pet name you give me, as short for Barbara. I have often told you that I do not like it.’ ‘You never said a word against it till Jasper came.’ ‘Well, dear, I may not have done so. When he did settle here, and we knew his name, it was not, of course, seemly to call me by it. That is to say,’ said Barbara, colouring, ‘it led to confusion—in calling for me, for instance, he might have thought you were addressing him.’ ‘Not at all,’ said Eve, still filled with a perverse spirit. ‘I never called him Babb at all, I always called him Jasper.’ Then she took up her little apron and pulled at the embroidered ends, and twisted and tortured them into horns. ‘It would be queer, sister, if you were to marry Jasper, you would become double Babb.’ ‘Don’t,’ exclaimed Barbara, bridling; ‘this is unworthy of you, Eve; you are trying to turn your arms against me, when I am attacking you.’ ‘May I not defend myself?’ Then Barbara drew her arm tighter round her sister, kissed her pretty neck under the delicate shell-like ear, and said, ‘Sweetest! we never fight. I never would raise a hand against you. I would run a pair of scissors into my own heart rather than snip a corner off this dear little ear. There, no more fencing even with wadded foils. We were talking of Mr. Coyshe.’ Eve shrugged her shoulders. ‘_Revenons à nos moutons_,’ she said, ‘though I cannot say old Coyshe is a sheep; he strikes me rather as a jackdaw.’ ‘Old Coyshe! how can you exaggerate so, Eve! He is not more than five or six-and-twenty.’ ‘He is wise and learned enough to be regarded as old. I hate wise and learned men.’ ‘What is there that you do not hate which is not light and frivolous?’ asked Barbara a little pettishly. ‘You have no serious interests in anything.’