Dr. Beauclerc turned his head to see who was entering the room, for the door had opened. It was a handsome stripling, growing rapidly into manhood—Frederick, heir of the St. John's. He was already keeping his terms at Oxford; Mrs. St. John had sent him there too early; and in the intervals, when they were sojourning at Westerbury, he was placed in the college; not as an ordinary scholar; the private pupil, and the chief one too, of Mr. Wilberforce.
The dean gave him a nod, and took the hand of the eager, exquisite face turned to him. Like his daughter, he was a great admirer of beauty in the human face: it would often give him a thrill of intense pleasure.
"What is your name, my boy?"
"Henry Cheveley Arkell, sir."
The dean glanced at Peter Arkell with a half smile. He remembered yet the commotion caused in Westerbury when Miss Cheveley married the tutor, and the name brought it before him.
"How old are you?"
"Nearly ten, sir."
"If I could paint faces, I'd paint his," cried Georgina to young St. John, in a half whisper. "Why don't you do it?"
"I suppose you mean his portrait?"
"You know I do. But, Fred, is he not beautiful?"