“Never mind her, Eusty,” struck in Olive, who had recovered her spirits simultaneously with the return of her brother full of the doings at the Pagnells’. “Never mind her—Nellie Dorrien’s a dear, sweet girl, and you might do worse.”
“What do you think of that, dad? Just listen to them, how they badger a fellow.”
“No—no—I won’t come to your rescue,” cried the rector, with a hearty laugh. “You must fight them single-handed. What’s the good of going to Oxford if it doesn’t teach you to take care of yourself, and against a pack of women, too?”
Chapter Sixteen.
The Die is Cast.
“Rather perfect? I should just think it was,” cries Olive, gazing around. “Confess now, you hardened cynic, that in all your wanderings you never saw anything so perfectly lovely as this.”
“I’ll own up readily enough. I never did,” is her companion’s reply.
“But—you are not looking at it,” turning to find that his glance has been fixed upon herself while he spoke, and colouring softly at the discovery.