Nor did he believe that Sir Rollo Bruce would care for his expulsion any more than he did himself; he fancied that his father was quite above the middle-class prejudices of respect and reverence for pedantry and pedagogues, and was too much a man of the world to be disturbed by a slight contretemps like this. He wrote home a careless note to mention the fact that his Saint Werner’s career was ended, and attributed this result to a mere escapade at a wine-party, which had been distorted by rumour, and exaggerated by malice into a serious offence.
So when Vyvyan gaily entered his father’s house, he felt rather light-hearted than otherwise. He expected that very likely some party would be going on, and quite looked forward to an agreeable dance. When he arrived, however, Vyvyan House was quite silent; a dim light came from a single window, but that was all.
“Sir Rollo and my mother not at home, I suppose,” he said to the plushed and powdered footman.
“Yes, sir, they’re in the library.”
He entered; they were sitting on opposite sides of the fire, with a single lamp between them. They were not doing anything, and Lady Bruce appeared to have been crying; but neither of them took any notice of his entrance beyond turning their heads.
“How do you do?” he said, advancing gracefully; but not a little surprised at so silent and moody a greeting.
“How do you do?” was his father’s cold reply.
“Dear me—I quite expected to find a party going on, but you seem quite gloomy. Is anything the matter?”
“Matter, sir!” exclaimed Sir Rollo, starting up vehemently from his chair, and angrily pacing the room. “Matter! Upon my word, Vyvyan, your impudence is sublime.”
“You surprise me. What have I done?”