Cameron did not know that the learned Professor of History had a niece named Laura Mowbray.
That evening about ten o’clock, when the medical student went down to his friend’s room, as was his custom at that hour, he found Alec poring over some papers, which he pushed aside as Cameron entered.
‘Come in,’ he cried, as the other paused in the doorway. ‘I’m not working.’
The Highlander took up his usual position, standing on the hearth-rug with his back to the fire, and proceeded to light his pipe.
‘They tell me you’re doing very well in the Latin class—sure of a prize, if you keep on as you’re doing,’ he said, after smoking for a minute in silence.
‘Oh, it’s no use; I can’t do Latin prose,’ answered Alec discontentedly. ‘How can I? I’ve never had any practice. Just look at this—my last exercise—no frightful blunders, but, as the Professor said, full of inelegancies;’ and he handed his friend a sheet of paper from his table as he spoke.
Cameron took the paper, and regarded it through a cloud of smoke.
‘What’s this?’ he exclaimed. ‘Poetry, as I’m a livin’ Heelandman! Just listen!’ and he waved his hand, as if addressing an imaginary audience.
Alec’s face burned, as he rose and hastily snatched the paper from his friend’s grasp. Cameron would have carried his bantering further, but he saw that in the lad’s face which restrained him.
‘Already!’ he muttered, as he turned away to hide his laughter.