“The boys are dining at the school to-day,” said my father. “Now, my child, it is time for me to be off.”
“But one minute first. There is a girl at school—”
“There are two hundred girls at your school. Which special one do you now allude to?”
“Her name is Augusta Moore. She has a love for books, somewhat as you have a love for books.”
The Professor raised one hand.
“I beseech of you, Dumps,” he said, “don’t speak of any girl’s immature admiration for the great works of the mighty dead. Don’t! Your words will get on my nerves.”
“Well, I won’t; but she wants to learn, and I suppose she has a right to,” I said in a somewhat dogged tone. “She has begged of me to ask you to give her two tickets for next Wednesday when you are lecturing at the Royal Society. She wants two, for she would not be allowed to go alone.”
For answer my father stalked across the room. He crossed the wide hall and entered his own study, a room he seldom used, for he did most of his home work in his bedroom. He came back presently with a couple of tickets and threw them on the table.
“There,” he said; “don’t say anything more about her. Don’t worry me on the subject. Good-bye, my little girl.”
He stooped and kissed me; his kiss was more affectionate than usual.