“Ah, that’s easy enough, Thomas; I mean clever at reading and writing, and all that. You didn’t know Carkey, of course. He was father’s clown. Ah, these were the days! We once had a circus company, Thomas; a real grand affair, with horses, and ladies in spangles and tights, and father used to stand in the middle in jackboots and crack a whip.”
“You don’t say so!” said Dibble, who felt highly honoured at the condescension of the young lady in telling him all this.
“O, yes; it was stunning, I can tell you. I was a very little girl at the time—very little; I can only just remember it; but Carkey, the clown, when father was done up, and had to turn to conjuring, he stuck to us for long enough, and it was he who used to tell me all about it.”
“I never see a clown but once,” said Dibble, “and that was when me and——”
“Yes,” said Christabel, “you and——”
“Well, I was going to say,” Dibble stammered.
“You and——” repeated Christabel. “Now, you are keeping something from me: if it’s a secret, tell it me, and I’ll tell you another—such a first-rater.”
“You will?” exclaimed Dibble.
“Yes,” said Christabel, nodding her head, and laughing quite gleefully.
“And you’ll never tell, on your blessed oath?” said Dibble. “But what’s the good of oaths? I’d rather trust to your honour.”