“Afraid! no,” returned Helen, opening her eyes. “What he got was a fit of the gout. A relapse.”
“What has the gout to do with Bill?”
“Why, old Featherston ordered papa to Buxton, and papa said he could not do without William to see to him there: mamma was laid up in bed with one of her bad colds—and she is not out of it yet. So papa went off, taking William—and you should just see how savage he was.”
For William Whitney to be “savage” was something new. He had about the easiest temper in the world. I laughed, and said so.
“Savage for him, I mean,” corrected Helen, who was given to talking at random. “Nothing puts him out. Some cross fellows would not have consented, and have told their fathers so to their faces. It is a shame.”
“I don’t suppose Bill cares much; he is no hand at rowing,” remarked Tod. “Did he write to Temple and decline?”
“Of course he did,” was Helen’s resentfully spoken answer; and she seemed, to say the least, quite as much put out as Bill could have been. “What else could he do?”
“Well. I am sorry for this,” said Tod. “Temple has asked me now. Johnny also.”
“Has he!” exclaimed Helen, her eyes sparkling. “I hope you will go.”
“Of course we shall go,” said Tod. “Where’s Anna?”