"When? Oh, to-day's Friday. Monday evening I was there—and Wednesday. Tuesday she came to us. Often enough, surely. She's got a lot to do, settling in. I'll go again soon, of course; perhaps to-morrow morning." "It ought to be to-day." "I'll see. What a lot you do think of Evelyn, to be sure!" "Anyone would! If I had such a sister—" "Well! If you had?" "I would—Cyril, what's that?" "Where? What are you looking at?" "There! Don't you see?" They had reached the next stile, and Jean stood not far from it, gazing across a wide muddy ditch upon the bank below the hedge. "A bird—look! It's a robin. I can see its red breast. It has been hurt." "It's not a nestling. Too big." "Then some horrid boy has thrown a stone. Hark! You can hear it 'peep.' Poor little thing! It is almost too weak to move. I must get it." "You can't; just look at that slush." "Slush! I'm not afraid of wet feet." The touch of scorn was enough. Before Jean could move, Cyril was down, ankle-deep, in the very middle of the wet slush, which indeed proved to be of the nature of thick watery mud. "Cyril! How absurd! I didn't mean you to go. I meant to do it myself. I should have gone to the stile, and climbed along the bank." "You couldn't. It's all brambles." Jean nearly said, "I don't mind scratches," but forbore. Had she uttered the words, he would certainly have charged the brambles, to gain scars honourable in her eyes. "I'll come too." Jean loved a scramble. "No, don't. Stop! It's no use. Such a mess! Wait a moment. Here he is—poor little chap! There, don't peck! What do you mean to do with him? I believe his leg's broken." "Oh, bring him to me." "All right, I'm coming." Jean bent over to receive the fluttering bundle of feathers, and examined it tenderly, while Cyril sprang up on terra firma. Furtively, he endeavoured to wipe his boots on the grass; not openly, for fear Jean should count him effeminate. He had not yet learned that a love of cleanliness is not in essence unmasculine. "Where's the basket? I'll make a soft bed of grass. Yes, please gather some. You poor little thing! Fancy if we had not found you! It's certainly a broken leg. We must get home as fast as possible, and aunt Marie will know what to do." "You'll have to tie up the leg in a splint." "Yes. I'll see. A bit of match, perhaps. Aunt Marie is so clever at that sort of thing. Cyril, your boots are soaking! You ought to go straight home and change them." "Fudge!" "What would Miss Devereux say?" "Anything she likes." "And you may catch cold." "I'm not going!" Such an opportunity to assert his manliness was not to be lost. Jean might think it her duty to uphold Miss Devereux, but he knew that if he went, she would—well, perhaps not despise, but undoubtedly she would pity him. To be pitied by Jean was more than Cyril could stand. "If you catch cold—" "I shan't catch cold." "Well, I have warned you." "All right."