He came to tea, but, by that time, Dr. May had established himself in the chair which had hitherto been appropriated to her cousin, a chair that cut her nook off from the rest of the world, and made her the exclusive possession of the occupant. There was a most interesting history for her to hear, of a meeting with the Town Council, which she had left pending, when Dr. May had been battling to save the next presentation of the living from being sold.
Few subjects could affect Ethel more nearly, yet she caught herself missing the thread of his discourse, in trying to hear what Mr. Ogilvie was saying to Flora about a visit to Glenbracken.
The time came for the two Balliol men to take their leave. Norman May had been sitting very silent all the evening, and Meta, who was near him, respected his mood. When he said good-night, he drew Ethel outside the door. “Ethel,” he said, “only one thing: do ask my father not to put on his spectacles to-morrow.”
“Very well,” said Ethel, half smiling; “Richard did not mind them.”
“Richard has more humility—I shall break down if he looks at me! I wish you were all at home.”
“Thank you.”
The other Norman came out of the sitting-room at the moment, and heard the last words.
“Never mind,” said he to Ethel, “I’ll take care of him. He shall comport himself as if you were all at Nova Zembla. A pretty fellow to talk of despising fame, and then get a fit of stage-fright!”
“Well, good-night,” said Norman, sighing. “It will be over to-morrow; only remember the spectacles.”
Dr. May laughed a good deal at the request, and asked if the rest of the party were to be blindfolded. Meta wondered that Ethel should have mentioned the request so publicly; she was a good deal touched by it, and she thought Dr. May ought to be so.