“'What does that mean?' asked I.
“'He was so fond of Tom,' said Fossbrooke, 'they were never separate this last month or five weeks;' so you see, darling, each of us has his sphere of love and affection.”
Lucy was crimson over face and neck, but never spoke a word. Had she spoken it would have been, perhaps, to corroborate Sir Brook, and to say how fond the young men were of each other. I do not affirm this, I only hint that it is likely. Where there are blanks in this narrative, the reader has as much right to fill them as myself.
“Sir Brook,” continued Lendrick, “thinks well of the young man; but for my own part I hardly like to see Tom in close companionship with one so much his superior in fortune. He is easily led, and has not yet learned that stern lesson in life, how to confess that there are many things he has no pretension to aspire to.”
“Tom loves you too sincerely, papa, ever to do that which would seriously grieve you.”
“He would not deliberately,—he would not in cold blood, Lucy; but young men, when together, have not many moods of deliberation or cold blood. But let us not speculate on trouble that may never come. It is enough for the present that he and Trafford are separated, if Trafford was even likely to lead him into ways of extravagance.”
“What 's that! Is n't it, Tom? He's laughing heartily at something. Yes; here he comes.”
“You may come out; the last of them has just driven off,” cried Tom, knocking at the door, while he continued to laugh on immoderately.
“What is it, Tom? What are you laughing at?”
“You should have seen it; it's nothing to tell, but it was wonderful to witness. I'll never forget it as long as I live.”