'And where are you going to send him?'
'Really,' said Mr. Dallas, without ceasing his contemplation of the page before him, 'I do not know. I have not considered the matter lately.'
'Do you remember he is eighteen?'
'I thought you were not ready to let him go yet?'
Mrs. Dallas stopped her embroidery and sighed.
'But he must go, husband.'
Mr. Dallas made no answer. He seemed not to find the question pressing.
Mrs. Dallas sat looking at him now, neglecting her work.
'You have got to make up your mind to it, and so have I,' she went on presently. 'He is ready for college. All this pottering over the classics with Colonel Gainsborough doesn't amount to anything. It keeps him out of idleness,—if Pitt ever could be idle,—but he has got to go to college after all, sooner or later. He must go!' she repeated with another sigh.
'No special hurry, that I see.'
'What's gained by delay? He's eighteen. That's long enough for him to have lived in a place like this. If I had my way, Hildebrand, I should send him to England.'