It was past nine at night, and the lower school had gone to bed, but there was Wildney quietly sitting on Eric's knee by the study fire, while Duncan was doing some Arnold's verses for him to be shown up next day.
"Bother these verses," said Duncan, "I shall have a whiff. Do you mind, Eric?"
"No; not at all."
"Give me a weed, too," said Wildney.
"What! young un--you don't mean to say you smoke?" asked Eric in surprise.
"Don't I, though? let me show you. Why, a whole lot of us went and smoked two or three pipes by Riverbend only yesterday."
"Phew!" said Eric, "then I suppose I must smoke too to keep you in countenance;" and he took a cigar. It was the first time he had touched one since the day at the Stack. The remembrance made him gloomy and silent. "Tempora mutantur," thought he, "nos et mutamur in illis."
"Why, how glum you are," said Wildney, patting him on the head.
"O no!" said Eric, shaking off unpleasant memories. "Look," he continued, pointing out of the window to change the subject, "what a glorious night it is! Nothing but stars, stars, stars."
"Yes," said Duncan, yawning; "this smoking makes one very thirsty. I wish I'd some beer."