Brooke Dalton was six-and-twenty, a manly, well-looking young fellow, with fair hair and bright blue eyes. He was not very tall, and had already begun to develop a tendency towards stoutness, which gave him considerable trouble in after years. At present he kept it down by heavy doses of physical exercise, so that it amounted only to a little unusual fullness of body and the suspicion of a double chin. His enemies called him fat. His friends declared that his sunshiny look of prosperity and good-humor was worth any amount of beauty, and that it would be a positive loss to the world if he were even a trifle thinner. And Brooke Dalton was a man of many friends.
Lettice greeted him with a smile. "So you are here again," she said.
"Yes, I've been here a day or two. Have you heard from Sydney yet?"
"No, and we are dreadfully anxious. But papa says we shall hear very soon now."
"I don't suppose you need have the slightest anxiety. Sydney is sure to do well: he was always a clever fellow."
"Yes, but he has had no teaching except from papa: and papa torments himself with the idea that there may be better teachers than himself at Cambridge—which I am sure there couldn't be. And I am sure he will be disappointed if Sydney does not get at least an exhibition, although he tries to pretend that he will not mind."
"If he does not get it this year, he will be the surer of it next time."
"Yes," said Lettice rather doubtfully. "But I wish papa were not quite so anxious."
"Did he go to Cambridge with Sydney?"
"Yes, and stayed for a day or two; but he said he was rather glad to get home again—there had been so many changes since he was there."