The two other young men had discreetly strolled on. Jane-Anne, Gantry Bill and his master stood in the road encircled by broken eggs, and looked at one another. Jane-Anne saw a tall, broad-shouldered young man with a brown face, a very clean brown face that had once been fair. He was not handsome—his nose was too broad and his mouth too big; but he had splendid strong white teeth and merry blue eyes, which, at that moment, looked into her own full of contrition and commiseration. "I think," he added hastily, "that we are neighbours; don’t you live opposite?" "That’s how I knew your dog," Jane-Anne explained. "You leave him alone a great deal." "I can’t take him to lectures." "I’m sure he’d behave very well. But, as I was saying, you leave him alone and I was sorry for him, and so he sometimes comes and visits me, and we’re great friends, aren’t we, Gantry Bill?" "You know his name?" the young man exclaimed. "Of course. I’m not deaf, and the street is not wide. Oh, dear! whatever shall I do about the eggs?" "Where did you get them, and we’ll go and get some more?" "But I haven’t any more money, and we always pay for them." "Of course, you must allow me to pay for them. My dog broke them." "If you wouldn’t mind—just for to-day. You see, if I don’t take them back aunt couldn’t make an omelette for Mr. Wycherly’s dinner." "Let’s go and get them at once. We can get them at the nearest grocer’s." "Oh, you needn’t trouble to come with me. I must go back, for aunt won’t get eggs anywhere else. If you could lend me the shilling——" "I’m going to carry those eggs, and see you safe home. You might feel faint or something after such a shock." Jane-Anne laughed, but she did not forbid him to accompany her. Gantry Bill gambolled on ahead, and together they bought another shilling’s worth of eggs from Mrs. Dew’s old woman. As they walked down the Iffley Road together, he said rather diffidently: "Gantry Bill is more fortunate than his master, since he seems to know you, Miss Wycherly." "My name’s not Wycherly," Jane-Anne answered. "It’s Stavrides. I’m no relation to Mr. Wycherly; my aunt is his housekeeper, and he lets me live there. I love him dearly." "My name’s George Gordon." "Oh!" she exclaimed. "Are you any relation to Lord Byron?" "Certainly not, I’m glad to say," he remarked decidedly. "We’re quite another lot of Gordons. It’s a big clan, you know. We’re the Dumfrieshire Gordons. The poet was a gloomy sort of chap, wasn’t he?" Jane-Anne stood still, and gazed at the Gordon at her side with great indignation. "Gloomy," she repeated; "sad, if you like, sometimes, but very witty and amusing; have you read his letters?" George Gordon hung his head; the brown eyes looking up into his were so grave and accusing. "I’m afraid I know very little about him," he said humbly; "perhaps he was an ancestor of yours—I’m awfully sorry——"