“And has not Temple grown older, do you suppose; and don’t whiskers sprout and grow? You are always a muff, Johnny. That is Slingsby Temple.”
We had gone by rail to Whitney Hall, and were walking up from the station. The Squire sent us to ask after Sir John’s gout. It was a broiling hot day in the middle of summer. On the lawn before the house, with some of the Whitneys, stood a stranger; a little man, young, dark, and upright.
Tod was right, and I was wrong. It was Slingsby Temple. But I thought him much altered: older-looking than his years, which numbered close upon twenty-five, and more sedate and haughty than ever. We had neither seen nor heard of him since quitting Oxford.
“Oh, he’s regularly in for it this time,” said Bill Whitney, in answer to inquiries about his father, as they shook hands with us. “He has hardly ever had such a bout; can only lie in bed and groan. Temple, don’t you remember Todhetley and Johnny Ludlow?”
“Yes, I do,” answered Temple, holding out his hand to me first, and passing by Tod to do it. But that was Slingsby Temple’s way. I was of no account, and therefore it did not touch his pride to notice me.
“I am glad to see you again,” he said to Tod, cordially enough, as he turned to him; which was quite a gracious acknowledgment for Temple.
But it surprised us to see him there. The Whitneys had no acquaintance with the Temples; neither had he and Bill been special friends at college. Whitney explained it after luncheon, when we were sitting outside the windows in the shade, and Temple was pacing the shrubbery with Helen.
“I fancy it’s a gone case,” said Bill, nodding towards them.
“Oh, William, you should not say it,” struck in Anna, in tones of remonstrance, and with her pretty blush. “It is not sure—and not right to Mr. Temple.”
“Not say it to Tod and Johnny! Rubbish! Why, they are like ourselves, Anna. I say I think it is going to be a case.”