“I don’t see why I shouldn’t go out as well as you if it clears at all,” I said. “You forget that I am less sensitive to cold than you, since you were ill!”
If I had thought a moment I would not have said this, knowing what boy nature is as to any precautionary measures for health. I was surprised that my not very tactful speech did not seem to annoy my brother.
“I don’t know about that,” was all he said in reply. “I’m ever so much tougher than I was, and at worst, I have the advantage over you of having no flapping skirts to soak up the wet.”
No more was said just then. We got through the day comfortably enough. I amused myself, as one can always do on a wet day when away from one’s people, by writing a long letter home; Moore entertaining himself, so far as I saw him during the morning, with a wonderful “find” in the shape of a collection of old bound volumes of Punch—dating back years before their present reader had honoured the world by his presence. I overheard him chuckling quietly to himself now and then, as he sat in his corner, and the sound was pleasant to my ears for more reasons than one. I was glad that he was not feeling bored, and I was relieved to think that the suppressed excitement which I had begun to suspect his manner had no existence except in my fancy.
“I don’t believe,” I said to myself with satisfaction, “I don’t think there can be anything brewing in his brain,” and in this comfortable state of mind I passed the greater part of the day, reassuring myself now and then by taking a peep at the boy whenever I lost sight of him for many minutes at a time.
We had tea together, of course, very comfortably in the library, which we had chosen in preference to the drawing-room during our tête-à-tête days, and Moore did full justice to the cakes which Isabel before she left home had taken care to order in profusion for his, or our, delectation.
The second post came in about five o’clock at Millflowers, and the outgoing post left at six. To-day brought an unexpected letter from mother, from whom I had already heard that very morning. This necessitated an addition to what I had previously written, as it concerned a matter of some little importance.
“I shall only just have time,” I reflected, “to answer what mother asks before the bag goes,” and for a moment or two I sat thinking over what I had to say, rather absorbed in it.
Moore meanwhile had strolled to the window, and stood there looking out; the post had brought nothing for him.
“It has cleared up,” he remarked, “to some extent at least, but it doesn’t look tempting. What do you say about going out, Reggie?”