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128 stared at the bright-hued figure, full and soft under the long face, and was confused as she stared back. "It's all right, Myra, I'm only showing Clyne my rabbits."

"But you know you're not allowed to feed them, Cassy. You make them so horribly fat—it's loathsome." She took no notice of Richard save to smile at him when she ended; but as she turned her face away she added, half to Richard and half to the sky, "Cassy's such a donkey with rabbits."

Her brother smiled. "Well, you're afraid of them—you're afraid of everything, silly."

Myra moved off. "You'd get into trouble, only mother's out."

Richard looked after her diminishing figure, as it swayed under the apple boughs. The sun and dappling shadow made her dress bright as a bird's plumage—peacock-like for richness; and as she passed from sight he heard her voice ambling an air, no, he couldn't be quite sure of the air, and only felt that the voice was rich and full. Boney was still feeding and fondling his rabbits, and after a moment's silence Richard asked him, "Is that your sister—Myra?"

"Yes, of course."

"Why did she call you Cassy?" And as Boney didn't answer at once, Richard pursued teasingly, "It might be short for so many names—Cassius, the envious Casca; why it might be Casabianca."

"I say," protested the other.

"What is it short for, then?" He was seized with a desire to drag his name from Boney, not because he was interested in names, but because real names were hidden and between the boys at school there was a rigid secrecy upon this most intimate and sacred subject. He wanted Boney's name because he shared the school's attitude of slightly despising Boney, Boney being clever, of rich parents, and with showy habits, and a generally mysterious origin. "What is Cassy short for?"

Boney was afraid to tell, but since Richard knew now that he was called Cassy he was afraid the name might be used at school. After a cunning moment he looked up and said, "Well, I'll tell you, on conditions of course."

"Well—what conditions?"

"You tell me yours, and we'll both swear a solemn oath—a really dreadful solemn oath—not to tell any one else."

"All right—I'll swear."