“I’m glad of that,” said the lady smiling; “but, one minute, before we go in the dining-room: there’s a beautiful souvenir rosebud over the window where I cannot reach it. Cut it and bring it in.”
“At your peril, sir,” said the doctor fiercely. “The last rose of summer! I will not have it touched.”
“Now, my dear Tom, don’t be so absurd,” cried the lady. “What is the use of your growing roses to waste—waste—waste themselves all over the place.”
“You hear that, Vane? There’s quoting poetry. Waste their sweetness on the desert air, I suppose you mean, madam?”
“Yes: it’s all the same,” said the lady. “Thank you, my dear,” she continued, as Vane handed the rose in through the window.
“My poor cut-down bloom,” sighed the doctor; but Vane did not hear him, for he was setting his hat down again in the museum-like hall, close by the fishing-tackle and curiosities of many lands just as a door was opened and a fresh, maddening odour of fried ham saluted his nostrils.
“Oh, murder!” cried the lad; and he rushed upstairs, three steps at a time, to begin washing his hands, thinking the while over his encounter with his Creole fellow-pupil.
“Glad I didn’t fight him,” he muttered, as he dried his knuckles, and looked at them curiously. “Better than having to ask uncle for his sticking-plaster.”
He stopped short, turning and gazing out of the bedroom window, which looked over the back garden toward the field with their Jersey cows; and just then a handsome game-cock flapped his bronzed wings and sent forth his defiant call.
“Cock-a-doodle-doo! indeed,” muttered Vane; “and he thinks me a regular coward. I suppose it will have to come to a set-to some day. I feel sure I can lick him, and perhaps, after all, he’ll lick me.”