“What mark for the verses?” said Ethel.
“Quam bene.”
“Not optime?”
“No, they were tame,” Dr. Hoxton said.
“What is Harry doing?” said Margaret.
“He is fourth in his form. I left him at football.”
“Dinner!” said Flora at the door. “What will you have, Margaret?”
“I’ll fetch it,” said Norman, who considered it his privilege to wait on Margaret at dinner. When he had brought the tray, he stood leaning against the bed-post, musing. Suddenly, there was a considerable clatter of fire-irons, and his violent start surprised Margaret.
“Ethel has been poking the fire,” she said, as if no more was needed to account for their insecurity. Norman put them up again, but a ringing sound betrayed that it was not with a firm touch, and when, a minute after, he came to take her plate, she saw that he was trying with effort to steady his hand.
“Norman, dear, are you sure you are well?”