There came a laugh, but Robina returned to the charge. 'Well, but what is it? Is it east wind?'
'Something detestable—whatever it is,' grunted Lance.
'You've found it so too,' said Robina; for Lance had only come home after evening cathedral the day before.
'Haven't I, though!'
He said no more, being a boy of much reserve as to his private troubles; and Robina presently said,—
'I say, Lance, did Alda use to be nice, or is it love?'
'Never nice, like Wilmet or Cherry.'
'I am sure,' proceeded the girl, 'I thought love was the most beautiful and romantic thing—too nice to be talked about, for fear it should turn one's head; but here it seems to be really nothing but plague and bother and crossness.'
'Poor Bob!' said Lance, 'you got the worst of it up at Brompton.'
'I got it every way,' said Robina. 'There was Edgar treating me like a little contemptible baby, and Alice sometimes coaxing me and sometimes spiting me, and Angel poisoned against me; and when I thought I must be acting for the best in telling Felix, somehow that turned out altogether horrid.'