Smugg had never spoken to her--so we should all have sworn. But
now my wondering eyes saw, opposite Pyrrha (we began from this
day to call her Pyrrha) the figure of Smugg. Pyrrha was leaning
against a barn, one foot crossed over the other, her arms akimbo,
a string of her bonnet in her mouth, and her blue eyes laughing
from under long lashes. Smugg stood limply opposite her, his
trousers bagging over his half-bent knees, his hat in one hand,
and in the other a handkerchief, with which, from time to time,
he mopped his forehead. I could not hear (of course I did not
wish to) what they were saying; indeed, I have my doubts if they
said anything; but presently Smugg moved a hesitating step
nearer, when Pyrrha, with a merry laugh, darted by him and ran
away, turning a mocking face over her shoulder. Smugg stood
still for a minute, then put on his hat, looked at his watch, and
walked slowly away.
I did not keep Smugg's secret; I felt under no obligation to keep
it. He deserved no mercy, and I exposed him at breakfast
that very morning. But I could not help being a little sorry for
him when he came in. He bent his head under the shower of
reproach, chaff, and gibing; he did not try to excuse himself; he
simply opened his book at the old place, and we all shouted the
old ode, substituting "Betsa" for "Pyrrha" wherever we could.
Still, in spite of our jocularity, we all felt an under-current
of real anger.
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