"And what kind of winter have you all had? You have been in Boston all the time,—that is, your mother and father?"
"In Boston, yes. The winter has been such as might have been expected, far from the sun which etcetera. Barring the fact that we have all existed in a state of acute anguish at being separated from you, we have all been exceedingly well, thank you."
"And how do you and Phil like college? Is it as much fun as you thought it would be? Do you like your rooms? Are you doing all right in your Greek?"
"Hilda," put in Mrs. Grahame, "do let the boy draw breath, and allow yourself to do so. Two such panting young creatures I have seldom seen. And Gerald is not going away on the night train."
"I suppose not!" said Hildegarde. "But, oh, it does seem so long since I have heard anything about him and Phil. Bell, you see, writes the most enchanting letters, but they are mostly about college and music,—her college, I mean; and she tucks in a little postscript to say that all are well at home, and that is all the news I get."
"Which accounts for your pallid and emaciated appearance!" said Gerald.
"'Thy cheek, my love, of late a living rose,
Which could the bulbul cheat with its rich hue,
Looks pale—'
"I don't remember any more. I learned that in the Finden book, when I was six years old."
"Why, Gerald, did you have the Finden books, too? How delightful! Dear, ridiculous books! We have them now. I still think the 'Diamond' lady the most beautiful creature that ever lived,—and simpered. But you are not telling me a word about college!"
"I have had so much opportunity, you observe!" said Gerald, appealing to Mrs. Grahame. "My natural diffidence has been allowed such free play by the silent and unconversational attitude of your daughter—"