Belle could not help blushing with intense gratification.
“Ah,” she said, “I also have the same tastes. I passionately love the classics.”
Rupert dropped his voice. He began to talk to Belle at once about Cicero, Socrates, Homer, and her other favorite writers of antiquity. Soon they were in the full flow of a most animated conversation. Belle spoke eagerly and well; she unfolded the riches of her really great knowledge, and Rupert cleverly led her on. He had a smattering of Greek and Latin at his fingers’ ends, but no more. He managed, however, to use his very little knowledge to the best advantage; and Belle was so flattered by his covert glances, by his skillfully veiled compliments, by his pretended comprehension of her and her moods, that she never guessed how shallow were his acquirements, and opened out herself more and more.
If Annie was nice, her brother was even nicer. He was the exception that proves the rule. After all, there always was an exception—always, always.
A faint color came into her thin cheeks. Coffee was brought in, very fragrant, strong coffee. A servant approached Belle with a tray, but she waved it aside.
“Not now,” she said. Then she turned to Rupert.
“Why will mother always insist upon spoiling a great intellectual treat with those tiresome attentions to creature comforts. Who wants coffee at a moment like this?”
Now Rupert, who had not been able to indulge in a good dinner, would have liked a cup of fragrant coffee immensely; but he instantly took his cue from Belle, and declined it with a wave of the hand.
“None for me,” he said. “Yes, Miss Acheson, I agree with you; at a moment like the present one cannot think of sublunary matters.”
“Do go on,” said Belle; “So you really studied——” And then once more the conversation assumed its classical complexion.