Bulstrode had taken a great interest in Mrs. Blair, partly from curiosity about the woman who had dared to jilt Richard Skelton, and partly from a reason connected with that preposterous will of the late Mrs. Skelton—for Elizabeth Blair was Skelton’s only near relative. The interest had been followed by a real esteem for her, due chiefly to a remark made quite innocently when Bulstrode went to Newington one evening. Mrs. Blair was teaching Hilary his Latin lesson, while Blair, who was a university man, guyed her unmercifully as he lay stretched out in a great chair.
“When did you learn Latin, my dear madam?� asked Bulstrode, with a benevolent grin.
“Ah, Mr. Bulstrode, I never learned Latin at all,� answered Mrs. Blair, with a smile and a blush; “I learned a few nouns and verbs long years ago, and now that I must teach Hilary, I have furbished them up a little for his benefit.�
Her modesty pleased Bulstrode, who was disgusted by any assumption of learning.
“Now, my boy,� he said to Hilary, “do you like Latin?�
“First rate,� answered Hilary sturdily. “Like it better’n any lesson I’ve got. Wish I could read it like you do, Mr. Bulstrode.�
Bulstrode was delighted.
“My dear Mrs. Blair,� he cried, turning to her, “you have done more than I could do—you have made the boy like the undying language. If I could only do that with Lewis Pryor! The boy is bright enough—bright enough—but he wants to be reading modern histories and romances all the time.�
Mrs. Blair coloured slightly at the mention of Lewis Pryor. She knew all about the surreptitious friendship between the two boys, and if Blair would have allowed it she would have had Lewis at Newington sometimes. But Blair swore it should not be. For want of something better to say, she asked:
“How are you all coming on at Deerchase?�