Accordingly, the instant tea was over, he got to his lessons; Tom at one side of the table—who had more, in proportion, to do than Charles—he at the other. Thus were they engaged when Hamish entered.
“What sort of a night is it, Hamish?” asked Charles, thinking of the projected play.
“Fine,” replied Hamish. “Where are they all?”
“Constance is in the drawing-room, giving Annabel her music lesson. Arthur’s there too, I think, copying music.”
Silence was resumed. Hamish stood over the fire in thought. Tom and Charles went on with their studies. “Oh dear!” presently exclaimed the latter, in a tone of subdued impatience.
Hamish turned his eyes upon him. He thought the bright young face looked unusually weary. “What is it, Charley, boy?”
“It’s this Latin, Hamish. I can’t make it come right. And Tom has no time to tell me.”
“Bring the Latin here.”
Charles carried his difficulties to Hamish. “It won’t come right,” repeated he.
“Like Mrs. Dora Copperfield’s figures, I expect, that wouldn’t add up,” said Hamish, as he cast his eyes over the exercise-book. “Halloa, young gentleman! what’s this! You have been cribbing.” He had seen in the past leaves certain exercises so excellently well done as to leave no doubt upon the point.