"Did I say it?" Evidently every idea he possesses is centred in that absurd gun.
"Dear me, 'Duke, of course you did," I cry, impatiently. "You told me he was not 'brilliant,' and that means the same thing. Don't you remember?"
"Well is he brilliant?"
"No, but he converses very nicely, and is quite as agreeable as any of the other men, in a general sort of way."
"I am very glad you think so. He is a great friend of mine; and, after all, I don't suppose it matters in the least a man's not being able to master his Greek and Latin, or failing to take his degree."
"Of course not. I dare say he did not put his mind to it. I am convinced had he done so he would have distinguished himself as—as much as anybody."
"Just so."
"I think"—with hesitation—"he would suit Dora very well."
"I agree with you there; more particularly as Dora is not clever either."
"Yes, she is," I cry hotly; "she is exceedingly clever. She can do a great deal more than most girls; she can do lots of things that I can't do."