“She has been living for the last year with that old Miss Haredale, who lost her money. She chaperons Miss Carisbrooke, and is to bring her out, I believe, in London this year.”
There was a little silence. Perhaps it had been from a kind of embarrassment that Lucian had at once rained facts upon Sylvester, and put him in possession of his intentions. Now he said—
“Don’t let the mother set you on to bully me about staying at home. I always meant to have a shot at a white bear some time—except once, for about three months.—And that’s quite over, for good and all. I’ve no more concern with it. So I must do something else, you know; and I like sport, and seeing new places.”
Lucian paused again, and Sylvester looked at him keenly, hardly knowing what to say in answer.
“I am convinced,” continued Lucian, with the same unmoved voice and face, “that I acted rightly. So we’ll say no more about it. What have you been about? The mother says you’re writing a poem.”
“Yes,” said Sylvester; “will you read it?”
“I’ll buy it,” said Lucian, gravely; “and, yes, I’ll read it, if you like, as it’s yours. I hope you’ll make Tennyson take a back seat.”
“Thank you,” said Sylvester, laughing. “I’ll be content to hang on behind his coach. But of course I’m rather full of it. I’ve had several things in reviews and magazines, and some men, whose word is worth something, like them. But it’s all luck. The public’s harder to hit than a tiger, Lucy.”
“I hope it won’t turn and rend you. Well, it’s jolly to see you again, after all. Come in, I’ve got some curiosities for you—art objects, don’t you call them?—to adorn your rooms at Cuthbert’s.”
“Thanks. And then come down and see Aunt Meg and the governor. They’ll be delighted.”