She gave an impatient sigh, and turned from her cousin to the dog, as if he were the more interesting companion of the two.
“Well, I suppose I must be content to wait,” she said; “but if you knew what I have suffered—what I shall suffer till that mystery is solved—you would not wonder if I feel angry at being kept in the dark. Has your friend gone back to London?”
“Yes; but he is coming again before my holiday is over. You like him, I know, Juanita,” he added, looking at her somewhat earnestly.
“Yes, I like him,” she answered, carelessly, but with a faint blush. “I suppose most people like him, do they not? He is so bright and clever.”
“I am very glad you like him. He is the most valued friend I have—indeed, I might almost say he is the only friend I made for myself at the University. I made plenty of acquaintances, but very few I cared to meet in after-life. Ramsay was like a brother. It would have been a real grief to me if our friendship had not lasted.”
“He is ambitious, is he not?”
“Very ambitious.”
“And proud?”
“Very proud; but it is a noble pride—the pride that keeps a man straight in all his doings—the pride that prefers bread and cheese in a garret to turtle and venison at a parvenu’s table. He is a splendid fellow, Nita, and I am proud of his friendship.”
“Is he very busy, that he should be so determined to leave Dorchester?”