‘Oh, natural history!’
‘Yes; natural history,’ replied the sturdy-looking boy.
‘I don’t care for the birds in the woods here,’ said Jerome, carelessly; ‘ugly little brown things! I liked the golden pheasants, and the scarlet humming-birds, and the big white macaw, and the papagei—parrot, you know—in Countess Necromi’s aviary.’
‘Laura, my dear, we must go. We have to do Brentwood yet, you know, and then to drive to the Lathebys.’
‘Yes; I suppose we have. Well, boys, good afternoon. Will you shake hands with me?’
‘Yes, signorina. À rivederci,’ said young Wellfield, looking so enchantingly amiable that Miss Laura stooped and kissed him.
‘Since you say à rivederci, I suppose you do not count me as an ugly thing?’ she said, laughing.
‘Oh no, the very opposite!’ he smiled, and she tapped his cheek, and said he was a precocious boy. She felt no interest in poor John Leyburn, but being of a kind disposition held out her hand to him too. He flushed all over his plain young face, and asked:
‘Will you—would you tell me what you are called?’
With a rapid flash of intuition ‘Laura’ realised that with all Jerome’s pretty words and liquid glances, he had not troubled himself on this point. She put her hand on the plain boy’s shoulder, and kissed him too, saying: