“It’s bigger than Dr Grayson’s,” said Dexter, after a pause.
Eddy picked a flower, gave a chew at the stalk; then picked it to pieces, and threw it away.
Then he began to sidle along again in and out among the trees, and on and on, never once looking at his companion till they were at the bottom of the garden. A pleasant piece of lawn, dotted with ornamental trees, sloped down to the river where, in a Gothic-looking boat-house, open at either end, a handsome-looking gig floated in the clear water.
“That your boat?” said Dexter eagerly, as his eyes ran over the cushioned seats, and the sculls of varnished wood lying all ready along the thwarts.
Edgar made no reply, only moved nearer to the water, and threw himself on a garden seat near the edge.
“Isn’t this a good place for fishing?” said Dexter, trying another tack.
No answer, and it was getting very monotonous. But Dexter took it all good-humouredly, attributing the boy’s manner more to shyness than actual discourtesy.
“I say, don’t you fish sometimes!”
No reply.
“Have you got any rods and lines!”