“A little holiday will do them good,” said Lady Jane.
“So far as that goes,” answered Lionel thoughtfully, “a woman’s education is complete when she has forgotten her arithmetic and has learned to play the piano well enough to drive people out of the house.”
“My dear,” retorted Lady Jane, “your sisters are not learning to play the piano.”
“Thank goodness! That is spared us. But they are forgetting their arithmetic.”
“According to you,” replied his mother, “it is a step in the right direction.”
“It’s all very well, but that’s no reason why they should climb to the top of the King’s Oak by the lodge and pepper every horse that passes with buckshot from a catapult.”
Again the Colonel’s moustache moved; but his son wore none, and not the shadow of a smile disturbed the grave lines of his mouth.
“I will speak to them,” said Lady Jane.
“I wonder what you’ll say!”
Before Lady Jane had time to explain what she would say, her second son appeared. He was a startling contrast to his elder brother and less than two years younger: he was a sort of red-haired Hermes; his colouring completely spoiled his beauty, which would have been, perhaps, too perfect for a man, if his complexion had not been freckled like a trout’s back and if his hair had been of any colour but that of inflamed carrots. As it was, he was just a very fine specimen of young humanity, and it would never have occurred to any one to call him even handsome. He was a credit to the family, though he had only got a pass degree at Oxford, for he had been Captain of the boats at Eton, and had pulled Four for the ‘Varsity in a winning year. It is true that he showed no taste for any profession or career, and seemed to have made up his mind to spend the rest of his life at home, because there was no finer hunting country in Great Britain; but then, there would always be bread-and-butter and horses for him, without seeking those necessities elsewhere, and if Lionel did not marry, he, Jocelyn, would take a wife. In the meantime he seemed quite unconscious of the admiration that was plentifully accorded to him by that large class of young women who prefer a manly man to a beauty-man. At all events he was absolutely reticent about his own affairs, and neither his mother nor his brothers could be sure that he had ever said a word to a woman which might not be repeated by the town crier. But there was no mistaking the glances that were bestowed upon him, nor the tone of voice in which some of the very nicest girls spoke to him. They could not help it, poor things. Jocelyn sat down on a low stool between his mother and Lionel, with his heels together, his knees apart, his shoulders bent forward, and his eyes fixed hungrily on the buttered toast. He looked like a big, cheerful mastiff, expecting to be fed by a friendly hand.