“Just come down and see them, Master Digby; prettier, nicer girls you never saw in your life, and pretty behaved, too. Ask Mr. Eccles if he ever mixed with a nicer company. There, now, sir, slip on your velvet jacket,—it looks nicer than that tail-coat,—and come down. They 'll be all proud and glad to see you, and won't she hold her head high that you ask to take a turn of a waltz with you!”
“And how should I face my father to-morrow?” said I, blushing deeply.
“Might I tell you a secret, Master Digby?” said he, leaning over the table, and speaking almost in my ear.
“Go on,” said I, dryly.
“I know well, sir, you 'll never throw me over, and what I 'm going to tell you is worth gold to you.”
“Go on,” cried I, for he had ceased to speak.
“Here it is, then,” said he, with an effort “The greatest sorrow your father has, Master Digby, is that he thinks you have no spirit in you,—that you 're a mollyoot. As he said one day to Mr. Cleremont, 'You must teach him everything, he has no “go” in himself; there 's nothing in his nature but what somebody else put into it.'”
“He never said that!”
“I pledge you my oath he did.”
“Well, if he did, he meant it very differently from what you do.”