“Has he been doing anything wrong?” reiterated Flora.
“Not that I know of,” was the blunt answer; and, at the same instant, Mr. Ogilvie arrived. He was a pleasant, high-bred looking gentleman, brown-complexioned, and dark-eyed, with a brisk and resolute cast of countenance, that, Ethel thought, might have suited the Norman of Glenbracken, who died on the ruddy Lion of Scotland, and speaking with the very same slight degree of Scottish intonation as she remembered in her mother, making a most home-like sound in her ears.
Presently, the rest of their own party came down, and, soon after, Charles Cheviot appeared, looking as quiet and tame, as he used to be in the schoolboy days, when Norman would bring him home, and he used to be too shy to speak a word.
However, he had learned the use of his tongue by this time, though it was a very soft one; and he stood by Ethel, asking many questions about Stoneborough, while something, apparently very spirited and amusing, was going on between the others.
The dinner went off well—there were few enough for the conversation to be general. The young men began to strike out sparks of wit against each other—Flora put in a word or two—Ethel grew so much interested in the discussion, that her face lighted up, and she joined in it, as if it had been only between her father and brother—keen, clear, and droll. After that, she had her full share in the conversation, and enjoyed it so much that, when she left the dinner-table, she fetched her writing-case to sketch the colloquy for Margaret and her father.
Flora exclaimed at her for never allowing any one to think of rest. Meta said she should like to do the same, but it was impossible now; she did not know how she should ever settle down to write a letter. Ethel was soon interrupted—the gentlemen entered, and Mr. Ogilvie came to the window, where she was sitting, and began to tell her how much obliged to her he and his college were, for having insisted on her brother’s sending in his poem. “Thanks are due, for our being spared an infliction next week,” he said.
“Have you seen it?” she asked, and she was amused by the quick negative movement of his head.
“I read my friend’s poems? But our lungs are prepared! Will you give me my cue—it is of no use to ask him when we are to deafen you. One generally knows the crack passages—something beginning with ‘Oh, woman!’ but it is well to be in readiness—if you would only forewarn me of the telling hits?”
“If they cannot tell themselves,” said Ethel, smiling, “I don’t think they deserve the name.”
“Perhaps you think what does tell on the undergraduates, collectively, is not always what ought to tell on them.”