"Are you proposing to become a wine-bibber in your enthusiasm?" asked
John.
Charles closed the lid, seated himself upon it, drew up his legs, and gazed out across the quadrangle. He had made a friend or two already among the freshmen, and this life seemed to him very good.
"My dear Jack, you would not have me be a saint all at once!"
John frowned. "You do not forget, I hope, in what hope you have been helped to Christ Church?"
Charles sat nursing his knees. A small frown puckered his forehead, but scarcely interfered with the good-tempered smile about his mouth.
"Others beside my father have helped or are willing to help.
See that letter?"—he nodded towards one lying open on the table—
"It is from Ireland. It has been lying in the porter's lodge for a
week, and my scout brought it up this morning."
John picked it up, smiling at his boyish air of importance. "Am I to read it?"
Charles nodded, and while his brother read, gazed out of window.
The smile still played about his mouth, but queerly.
"It is a handsome offer," said John slowly, and laid the letter down.
"Have you taken any decision?"
"Father leaves it to me, as you know," Charles answered and paused, musing. "I suppose, now, ninety-nine out of a hundred would jump at it."