How he does enjoy singing! His little body seems to expand, and you'd be astonished at the noise that he can make. This particular Sunday that I am telling you about my ears were fairly ringing as Jack joined in the chorus of "Onward, Christian Soldiers," and I wasn't sorry when Phil leaned over from behind and whispered, "Say, Rosebud, you're not detailed to lead the choir, you know."
Even the choir-master looked at him; but, perfectly regardless of everything and everybody, Jack sang through the five long verses, and sat down with the air of having thoroughly enjoyed himself.
I made up my mind, though, that I'd say something about it on our way home; but just as we were coming down the church steps Jack gave my arm a nudge. "There are your friends," he said, with a grin,—"the two of 'em; just see Phil and Felix scoot!" And when I turned quickly to see, who should it be but Mr. Erveng and Hilliard!
Mr. Erveng has been over to call on papa since that horrid afternoon that he escorted Phil and me home; but Hilliard didn't come with him, and we weren't sorry,—I mean Phil and I,—for we both felt foolish about meeting him; we hadn't forgotten that giggle of his when we took off our bonnets and veils that day in his father's library, and I think we both felt that we didn't want to know him any better.
Mr. Erveng and papa walked across the park together, talking, and as we all followed behind,—Felix and Phil were out of sight,—who should come up beside me and lift his hat but that Hilliard! "May I walk with you part way home?" he asked, "I want to say something to you."
He speaks slowly, deliberately, and has a way of half-closing his eyes when he's talking, that gives him a sleepy look,—though he can open them very wide too, sometimes; and he's sallow, and has lots of freckles. Altogether, he isn't nearly as good-looking as our boys, or Murray Unsworth; still he has rather a nice face, and we've found out that he is just as gentle and nice as a girl to his mother,—I mean in waiting on her and doing things for her. But all the same, I don't know whether I like him or not; you see he's never had a sister, never been much with girls, and he's got such silly, prim ideas about them.
Well, to go back: when he asked that, I said, "Oh, yes, I suppose so;" but Jack says my tone wasn't very polite. I didn't mean to be impolite, but seeing him brought that horrid afternoon right to my mind, and I could just hear him giggle all over again; I assure you Phil and I'll not try that sort of thing again,—not if the Fetich never gets sold.
And evidently that was in his mind, too; for he said, "I want to apologise for being so rude as to laugh that day in my father's office,"—that's the way he talks, so formal, as if he were as old as papa,—"and for guarding—"
"We didn't think it was at all polite, I must say," I broke in.
But he went right on; that's another of his ways,—if one interrupts him fifty times in a remark, he'll listen, but make no reply until he's finished what he started out to say. Now I think that's provoking,—I wonder how he'd get on if he lived in our family!—and it makes the person that interrupts feel very small and nettled, too. "And for guarding you and your brother home, as if I doubted your word," he finished.