Whisper it! But Antony was really irreverent enough to say one day to a friend of his that this solemn and classic library was a jolly good billiard-room spoiled.
Anyhow, it was in this room that Frank Antony found himself one morning. He had been summoned hither by his father.
The squire was verging on fifty, healthy and hard in face, handsome rather, with hair fast ripening into gray.
'Ha, Frank, my boy! come forward. You may be seated.'
'Rather stand, dad. Guess it's nothing too pleasant.'
'Well, I sent for you, Frank'——
'And I'm here, dad.'
'Let me see now. You're eighteen, aren't you?'
'I suppose so, sir; but—you ought to know,' replied Antony archly.
'I? What on earth have I to do with it? At least, I am too busy a man to remember the ages of all my children. Your mother, now, might; but then your mother is a woman—a woman, Frank.'