“I don’t know what you find at the Elms. Reginald says we are so dull here. I think so too—nothing but women; and you that have got two or three clubs and can go where you like.”
“You shall go to the clubs, Sophy, instead of me.”
“That is what I should like,” said Miss Sophy. “Everybody says men are cleverer than women, and I am very fond of good talk. I like to hear you talk of horses and things; and of betting a pot on Bucephalus—”
“Sophy! where did you hear such language? You must be sent back to the nursery,” cried Mrs. Lennox, “if you go on like that.”
“Well,” said Sophy, “Reginald had a lot on Bucephalus: he told me so. He says it’s dreadful fun. You are kept in such a state till the last moment, not knowing which is to win. Sometimes the favorite is simply nowhere, and if you happen to have drawn a dark horse—”
“Sophy! I can’t allow such language.”
“And the favorite has been cooked, don’t you know, or come to grief in the stable,” cried Sophy, breathless, determined to have it out, “then you win a pot of money! It was Reginald told me all that. I don’t know myself, more’s the pity; and because I am a girl I don’t suppose I shall ever know,” the little reprobate said, regretfully.
“Dear me, I never thought those things were permitted at Eton,” said Mrs. Lennox. “I always thought boys were safe there. Afterwards, one knows, not a moment can be calculated upon. That is what is so nice about you, Roland; you never went into anything of that kind. I wish so much, if you are here at Christmas, you would give Reginald a little advice.”
“I don’t much believe in advice, Mrs. Lennox. Besides, I’m not so immaculate as you think me; I’ve had in my day a pot on something or other, as Sophy says—”
“Sophy must not say those sort of things,” said her aunt. “Rosalind, give us some tea. It is quite cold enough to make the fire most agreeable and the tea a great comfort. And if you have betted you have seen the folly of it, and you could advise him all the better. That is always the worst with boys when they have women to deal with. They think we know nothing. Whether it is because we have not education, or because we have not votes, or what, I can’t tell. But Reginald for one does not pay the least attention. He thinks he knows ever so much better than I do. And John is abroad; he doesn’t care very much for John either. He calls him an old fogy; he says the present generation knows better than the last. Did you ever hear such impertinence? And he is only seventeen. I like two lumps of sugar, Rosalind. But I thought at Eton they ought to be safe.”