“What could I do?” said Dr. May deprecatingly; “the boy would go and get a Balliol scholarship—”
“Why! the lad is a genius! a poet—no mistake about it! but I scarcely thought you could have one of such an age.”
“Of his age! His brother is in Holy Orders—one of his sisters is married. There’s for you, Spencer!”
“Bless me, Dick! I thought myself a young man!”
“What! with hair of that colour?” said Dr. May, looking at his friend’s milk-white locks.
“Bleached by that frightful sickly season at Poonshedagore, when I thought I was done for. But you! you—the boy of the whole lot! You think me very disrespectful to your father,” added he, turning to Ethel, “but you see what old times are.”
“I know,” said Ethel, with a bright look.
“So you were in the theatre yesterday,” continued Dr. May; “but there is no seeing any one in such a throng. How long have you been in England?”
“A fortnight. I went at once to see my sister, at Malvern; there I fell in with Rudden, the man I was with in New Guinea. He was going up to be made an honorary doctor, and made me come with him.”
“And where are you bound for?” as the train showed signs of a halt.