At that he rose obediently.
Presently up came Cuthbert Pennington.
"I say, Miss O'Brien, don't you feel puffed up—reflected glory, you know, and all that? That young sister of yours says she knew he'd get the prize, because he's Irish. I said, 'Och, begorra, why doesn't his nose try to look at his brow then?' and she boxed my ears! Did, really! I've fallen head over heels in love with her. But she says she's going to marry an Irish breeder of horses. Hard on me, isn't it?"
His white teeth gleamed as he laughed out joyously.
"I say, if I'd known we'd a second what's-his-name amongst us, I'd never have fagged over books and notes till my hair went grey."
She glanced at his crisp black locks.
"What dye do you use?"
"Oh, a family secret! Won't you have some more coffee? Poor old Lancaster looks down, doesn't he? Never nervous myself—"
"If you'll let me get a word in edgeways, I'd like to observe that that seat is taken."
"How unkind you are to me! If you hadn't tempered your words with a smile, I'd have gone out and hanged myself. All right, I may stay here till the owner turns up? Thanks. I won't talk," sadly.