“Won’t you come too?” she called.
“Certainly not. I propose to meditate.” On these words I did turn round, and waved her farewell. I think she was indulging in a most proper forgetfulness of her brothers and sisters—and, incidentally, of myself. So I proceeded to the post office, although of course I had no letter at all to send.
I found Mr Davenport in flannels, sitting with his feet on the mantelpiece, smoking a pipe and reading. He was an engaging six-feet of vigour, and I delivered my message with as little rancour as could be expected under the circumstances.
“I think I’ll go,” he said, briskly knocking out his pipe.
It was some satisfaction to me to remind him that it was only half-past three, and that tennis didn’t begin till after tea. He put his pipe back between his teeth with a disappointed jerk.
“What are you reading?” I inquired affably. I must be pictured as standing outside the post office parlour window while conducting this colloquy.
He looked a trifle ashamed. “The fact is, I sometimes try to keep up my Latin a bit,” he explained, conscious of the eccentricity of this proceeding. “It’s Juvenal.”
“Not so very clerical,” I ventured to observe.
“A great moralist,” he maintained—yet with an eye distantly twinkling with the light of unregenerate days.
“I suppose so. That bit about prudence now——?”