“No, Tom; it's the catalogue,—the weary catalogue that he told me, as a punishment for not being able to find Machiavelli's comedies last week, he 'd make me sit down to on the first lovely morning that came.”
“Better that than those dreary Georgics which remind one of school, and the third form. But what 's your plan, Sir Brook? We have thought of all the projects that can terrify us, and you look as if it ought to be a terror.”
“Mine is a plan for pleasure, and pleasure only; so pack up at once and get ready. Trafford arrived this morning.”
“Where is he? I am so glad! Where's Trafford?” cried Tom, delighted.
“I have despatched him with the vicar and two well-filled hampers to Holy Island, where I mean that we shall all picnic. There 's my plan.”
“And a jolly plan too! I adhere unconditionally.”
“And you, Lucy, what do you say?” asked Sir Brook, as the young girl stood with a look of some indecision and embarrassment.
“I don't say that it's not a very pleasant project, but—”
“But what, Lucy? Where 's the but?”
She whispered a few words in his ear, and he cried out: “Is n't this too bad? She tells me Nicholas does not like all this gayety; that Nicholas disapproves of our mode of life.”