He smiled, that kind, sweet smile that made me ashamed of being cross.
"Come, I'm not going to confess my ignorance to you," he laughed. "I'm too old;" and he took hold of my arm to help it into the sleeve of my jacket, which I was trying to put on.
But at that moment Dorcas brought in the tea, and of course I was obliged to stay and have some, and even to hand a cup to the squire to please her; country-folk stand on ceremony over such things, and I did not want to offend Dorcas.
"You'll stop in to-night and see Joyce, won't you?" said I, for want of something to say, for I felt more than usually awkward. "She looks better than ever. She hasn't lost her country looks."
"I am glad of that," said he, glancing at me, although of course he must have been thinking of sister; "they're the only ones worth having." And then, although he promised to come in and welcome her home, he went back to our first subject of talk.
"As you're so fond of reading, you ought to get hold of a bit of Shakespeare," said he.
"Should I like that?" asked I. "I like poetry when it sounds nice, but I like the Waverley novels best."
"But Shakespeare is novel and poetry too," said the squire. "I'm no great reader of anything but the news myself, but I like my Shakespeare now and again."
"Father keeps all those nice bound books in the glass-case," said I, "and I don't believe mother would let me have them."
The squire laughed. "Your mother thinks girls have something better to do than to read books," smiled he. "Reading is for lonely bachelors like Trayton Harrod."