“No, mother.”
Mrs. Bennet turned her work, and in so doing glanced for a moment at her son. His eyes were upon her face, but he seemed to have said all he had to say.
“I always feel,” said Mr. Bennet, in a tone and with an expression as if he were looking at something very far away, “as if King Arthur must have lived in the tropics. There is that sort of weird, warm atmosphere in the romance. Where is Ellen? Shall we read some more in this little edition of the old story?”
He laid his hand, as he spoke, upon a small copy of old Malory’s Romance of Arthur. It was a kind of reading of which he was especially fond, and to which the rest were always willing and glad to listen.
“Call Ellen,” said he to Gabriel; “and now then for King Arthur!”
As he spoke the door-bell rang. The next moment a young man, apparently of Gabriel’s age, entered the room. His large melancholy black eyes, the massive black curls upon his head, the transparent olive complexion, a natural elegance of form and of movement—all corresponded with what Mr. Bennet had been saying. It was evidently Edward.
“Good-evening, Little Malacca!” cried Gabriel, gayly, as he rose and put out his hand.
“Good-evening, Gabriel!” he answered, in a soft, ringing voice; then bowed and spoke to Mr. and Mrs. Bennet.
“Gabriel doesn’t forget old school-days,” said the new-comer to Mrs. Bennet.
“No, he has often told us of his friendship with Little Malacca,” returned the lady calmly, as she resumed her work.