‘By Jove!’ he shouted. ‘If that man doesn’t experience symptoms of disorder! Why, I should be prostrate for a week if I consumed a quarter of what he has put out of sight.’
‘Alfred, you are shockingly rude,’ reproved his mother, though herself laughing. ‘Mr. Wyvern is absorbed in thought.’
‘Well, he has taken the best means, I should say, to remind himself of actualities,’ rejoined the youth. ‘But what a man he is! How did he behave in church this morning?’
‘You should have come to see,’ said Mrs. Waltham, mildly censuring her son’s disregard of the means of grace.
‘I like Mr. Wyvern,’ observed Adela, who was standing at the window looking out upon the dusking valley.
‘Oh, you would like any man in parsonical livery,’ scoffed her brother.
Alfred shortly betook himself to the garden, where, in spite of a decided freshness in the atmosphere, he walked for half-an-hour smoking a pipe. When he entered the house again, he met Adela at the foot of the stairs.
‘Mrs. Mewling has just come in,’ she whispered.
‘All right, I’ll come up with you,’ was the reply. ‘Heaven defend me from her small talk!’
They ascended to a very little room, which made a kind of boudoir for Adela. Alfred struck a match and lit a lamp, disclosing a nest of wonderful purity and neatness. On the table a drawing-board was slanted; it showed a text of Scripture in process of ‘illumination.’