The day of the ball was approaching apace, and everything in the house began to feel the excitement of the coming event. There was less than a week to go, when Eddy broached the subject of Johnson—of Chads—and the possibility of procuring him an invitation.
“Oh,” he said, “there is that—friend of mine up at the head of the loch.” (Naturally, Eddy, however much he might endeavour to conceal the fact, said “lock,” but I need not spoil my orthography by repeating his error.) “I wonder if you would be inclined to let me bring him, Mrs. Rowland. I scarcely like to ask; but he’s all alone, you know, and knows nobody, and looks wistful when one sees him.”
“You should bring him in to dinner, Eddy,” said the ever-hospitable Rowland.
“No, sir, I don’t think I should like to do that. He has not paid the extra twopence for manners. In a crowd he might pass muster, but at your table——”
There was the faintest emphasis on the words, which inferred a delicate compliment. And Rowland was pleased.
“Mr. Johnson?” said Evelyn, doubtfully. “I did not feel quite sure about him. He was a little—odd.”
“College dons are generally odd,” said the unblushing Eddy.
“Are you quite certain, my dear boy, that he is a college don?”
“For my own part,” said Eddy presently, “I should probably like him much better if he were not. But I suppose there can’t be two Johnsons—of Chads.”
“No, I suppose not,” said Evelyn, still doubtfully. “At the same time,” she added, “one would have thought if there was one thing you could be sure of in a college don it would be grammar—and his——and that they should talk like gentlemen.”