“It is the direction of your teaching that seems to me so singular. Mathematics are horrible enough, and greatly to be avoided.”
“That is news to me.”
“On terra firma, I mean.”
At this opening of the case Talboys versus Newton, Arthur shrugged his shoulders to Lucy and David, and went swiftly out as from the presence of an idiot. It was abominably rude. But, besides being ill-natured and a little shallow, Mr. Talboys was drawling out his words, and Arthur was sixteen—candid epoch, at which affectation in man or woman is intolerable to us; we get a little hardened to it long before sixty. Mr. Talboys bit his lip at this boyish impertinence, but he was too proud a man to notice it otherwise than by quietly incorporating the offender into his satire. “But the enigma is why you read them with a stripling, of whose breeding we have just had a specimen—mathematics with a hob-ba-de-hoy? Grand Dieu! Do pray tell us, Mr. Dodd, why you come to Font Abbey every day; is it really to teach Master Orson mathematics and manners?”
David did not sink into the earth as he was intended to.
“I come to teach him algebra and geometry, what little I know.”
“But your motive, Mr. Dodd?”
David looked puzzled, Lucy uneasy at seeing her guest badgered.
“Ask Miss Fountain why she thinks I do my best for Arthur,” said David, lowering his eyes.
Talboys colored and looked at Fountain.