“Well, what is it, then?” he asked, blankly.
“Why, Mr. Heigham, the fact is that we—that is, my old nurse and I, for my father is irregular in his meals, and always takes them by himself—live so very plainly, and I am ashamed to ask you to share our mode of life. For instance, we have nothing but bread and milk for breakfast;” and the golden head sunk in some confusion before his amused gaze.
“Oh! is that all?” he said, cheerily. “I am very fond of bread and milk.”
“And then,” went on Angela with her confession, “we never drink wine, and I know that gentlemen do.”
“I am a teetotaller, so that does not matter.”
“Really?”
“Yes—really.”
“But then, you know, my father shuts himself up all day, so that you will have nobody but myself to talk to.”
“Oh! never mind”—encouragingly. “I am sure that we shall get on.”
“Well, if, in spite of all this and a great deal more—ah! a very great deal that I have not time to tell you—you still care to come, I will do my best to amuse you. At any rate, we can read together; that will be something, if you don’t find me too stupid. You must remember that I have only had a private education, and have never been to college like you. I shall be glad of the opportunity of rubbing up my classics a little; I have been neglecting them rather lately, and actually got into a mess over a passage in Aristophanes that I shall ask you to clear up.”