“A pleasant journey, had you?” inquired Mrs. Mildman.
“Not any, I am much obliged to you,” I replied, thinking of the fish.
This produced a total silence, during which the pupils exchanged glances, and Thomas concealed an illicit smile behind the bread-basket.
“Does your father,” began Dr. Mildman in a very grave and deliberate manner, “does your father shoot?—boiled mutton, my dear?”
I replied that he had given it up of late years, as the fatigue was too much for him.
“Oh! I was very fond of carrying a gun—pepper-when I was-a spoon-at Oxford; I could hit a—mashed potato—bird as well as most men; yes, I was very sorry to give up my double-barrel—ale, Thomas.”
“You came inside, I believe?” questioned Mrs. Mildman, a lady possessing a shadowy outline, indistinct features faintly characterised by an indefinite expression, long ringlets of an almost impossible shade of whity-brown, and a complexion and general appearance only to be described by the term “washed out”.
“Yes, all the way, ma'am.”
“Did you not dislike it very much? it creases one's gown so, unless it is a merino or mousseline-de-laine; but one can't always wear them, you know.”
Not being in the least prepared with a suitable answer, I merely made what I intended to be an affirmative ahem, in doing which a crumb of bread chose to go the wrong way, producing a violent fit of coughing, in the agonies of which I seized and drank off Dr. Mildman's tumbler of ale, mistaking it for my own small beer. The effect of this, my crowning gaucherie, was to call forth a languid smile on the countenance of the senior pupil, a tall young man, with dark hair, and a rather forbidding expression of face, which struggled only too successfully with an attempt to look exceedingly amiable; which smile was repeated with variations by all the others.