‘Robin is a very good boy, I believe,’ said Honor.
‘That’s the worst of him!’ cried Lucilla, running away and clapping the door after her as she went.
‘Well, I don’t know,’ said Owen, very seriously, ‘he says he does not care about the Saints’ days because he has no one to get him leave out.’
‘I remember,’ said Honor, with a sweet smile of tender memory, ‘when to me the merit of Saints’ days was that they were your father’s holidays.’
‘Yes, you’ll send me to Westminster, and be always coming to Woolstone-lane,’ said Owen.
‘Your uncles must decide,’ she said, half mournfully, half proudly; ‘you are getting to be a big boy—past me, Oney.’
It brought her a roughly playful caress, and he added, ‘You’ve got the best right, I’m sure.’
‘I had thought of Winchester,’ she said. ‘Robert would be a friend.’
Owen made a face, and caused her to laugh, while scandalizing her by humming, ‘Not there, not there, my child.’
‘Well, be it where it may, you had better look over your Virgil, while I go down to my practical Georgics with Brooks.’