She glanced across her shoulder. “We're being intolerably rude, talking all about our own affairs. You see, once Nan was almost my sister. How old were you, Nan? Thirteen, wasn't it? And I was eighteen. We've not met since then. My father died suddenly, you know. I had to step into his shoes--they were much too big for me. That was the end of Oxford and Cassingland.” “We were going out on the river,” said Jehane. “Perhaps you'll join us. I'll sit very quiet and listen. You can talk over old times to your heart's content.” They piled his arms with cushions, and together set out through the glistening meadows to the barges. After the rain, the air was intensely still. Sounds carried far; from tall trees on the Broad Walk and from the uttermost distance came the fluty cry of birds, from the river the rattle of oars being banked, and from every side the slow patter of dripping branches. Like a canvas, fresh from an artist's brush, colors in the landscape stood out distinct and wet--flowers against the gray walls of Corpus, trunks of trees with their velvety blackness and shorn greenness of the Hinksey Hills. Men in disreputable shorts, returning from the boats, passed them. Some ran; some sauntered chatting. Barrington laughed shortly and drew a long breath. “Nothing to do but enjoy themselves. Nothing to do but grow a fine body and learn to be gentlemen. I missed all that. After the rush and drive, it's topping to sink back.” “You're right; it is sleepy. One day's just like the next. We stand as still as church-steeples. People come and go; we're left. We exist for visitors to look at, like the Martyr's Memorial and Calvary Tower.” He glanced down at Jehane quickly: she interested him--there was something about her that he could not understand. The long penciled brows, the thick lashes, the cloudy eyes and the straight, pale features attracted and yet repelled him. He felt that she was not happy and had never been quite happy. The natural generosity of the man made him eager to hear her speak about herself. But Jehane was aware that she had struck a discord in what she had said. He had flinched like a child, with whom the thought of pain had not yet become a habit. She made haste to cover up her error by directing attention to himself. “But you--what are you?” “I'm a pub.” “A pub! But you can't be. You don't mean that you----” Nan caught his arm in her merriment and leant across him. “Of course he doesn't. He's a publisher. He always did clip his words.” “But not _the_ Barrington--father's publisher?” “Yes, _the_ Barrington. It's funny, Jehane, but it can't be helped. Anyhow, he's only Billy now.” Barrington stood still, eying the two girls--the one fair and all mischief, the other dark and serious. “What's the matter with you, Miss Usk? Why do you object?” “If I told you, you might not like it.” “Rubbish.” “Well then, you ought to have a long gray beard like father. You're not old enough.” “I've sometimes thought that myself.”