Jehane laid aside her book leisurely and rose from her chair; he was even better to look at than she had expected. It was his clothes that impressed her first; the gray tweeds fitted his athletic figure with just that maximum of good taste that stops short of perfection. Then it was his face, clean-shaven and intellectual--the face of a boyish man, mobile and keen in expression. She liked the way he did his dark brown hair, almost as dark as hers, swept straight back without a parting from his forehead. His eyes were kindly, piercing and blue-gray; for a man he had exceptionally long, thin hands. She liked him entirely; she wondered whether he was equally well impressed. “So thoughtless of father--he's out. Is there anything I can do for you?” Jehane was tall, but she only reached up to his shoulders. His eyes looked down on hers and twinkled into a smile at her nervous gravity. “We all know the Professor; there's no need to apologize. Please don't stand.” She was about to comply with his request, when she realized that she no longer held his attention. He was staring past her. She turned her head. “Oh, allow me to introduce you, Mr. Barrington, to my friend, Miss Tudor.” “I thought it was.” His tones had become extraordinarily glad. “No one could forget little Nan, who'd once known her. But Nan, you've grown older. What do you mean by it? It's so uncalled for, so unexpected. You're no longer the Princess Pepperminta that you were.” Nan crossed the room in a romping bound and commenced pumping his arm up and down. “It's Billy, dear old Billy! You remember, Jehane; I've told you. Billy who sewed up father's surplice, and Billy who tied knots in my hair, and Billy who, when I got angry, used to call me the Princess Pepperminta. You made yourself so detestable, Billy, that our village talks about you even now.” “A doubtful compliment; but it's ripping to see you--simply ripping.” Jehane stood aside and watched them. She had heard Nan talk of Billy Barrington and how her father had tutored him for Oxford--but that must be twelve years back. She had never known him herself and had never been very curious about him. But now, as she watched, she felt the appeal of this big, broad-shouldered boy of thirty. They were talking--talking of things beyond her knowledge, things which shut her out. “And why didn't you write in all these years? Father and I often mentioned you. In Cassingland you were an event. It wasn't kind of you, Billy.” “Things at home were in such a mess. I'd to start work at once. Somehow, with working so hard, other things faded out.” “Poor Nan with the rest!” “No, I remembered you. 'Pon my honor I did, Nan; but I thought----” “Yes?” “You were such a kid in those days; I thought you'd forgotten. As though either of us could forget. I was an ass.” Jehane had turned her back and was looking out of the window. For the first time she envied Nan--Nan, the daughter of a country parson. It was too bad. “Miss Usk.”