“They are not Bob’s,—at least, not the most of them,—but mine,” said the girl.
“But some of them are mine,” said the boy; “ain’t they, Grace?”
“And are you a great scholar?” asked Lucy, drawing the child to her.
“I don’t know,” said Grace, with a sheepish face. “I am in Greek Delectus and the irregular verbs.”
“Greek Delectus and the irregular verbs!” And Lucy put up her hands with astonishment.
“And she knows an ode of Horace all by heart,” said Bob.
“An ode of Horace!” said Lucy, still holding the young shamefaced female prodigy close to her knees.
“It is all that I can give them,” said Mr. Crawley, apologetically. “A little scholarship is the only fortune that has come in my way, and I endeavour to share that with my children.”
“I believe men say that it is the best fortune any of us can have,” said Lucy, thinking, however, in her own mind, that Horace and the irregular Greek verbs savoured too much of precocious forcing in a young lady of nine years old. But, nevertheless, Grace was a pretty, simple-looking girl, and clung to her ally closely, and seemed to like being fondled. So that Lucy anxiously wished that Mr. Crawley could be got rid of and the presents produced.
“I hope you have left Mr. Robarts quite well,” said Mr. Crawley, with a stiff, ceremonial voice, differing very much from that in which he had so energetically addressed his brother clergyman when they were alone together in the study at Framley.