The dinner passed as such entertainments usually do, diminishing in interest as it went on. In his happiest days, Reginald always hated what the boys used to call “feeds,” and he found that three months’ altered circumstances had by no means reconciled him to the infliction. He shirked the last two or three courses, and grew heartily tired of the sight of a plate.
“You wondered how I came to be in town?” said Blandford. “The fact is, my uncle went off the hooks a few weeks ago, and as I’m his heir, you know, I came up, and haven’t gone back yet. I don’t think I shall either.”
“No; what’s the use, with the pot of money you’ve come in for?” said Mr Shanklin. “You’re far more comfortable up in town.”
“Yes, and you’re a nice boy to show a fellow about town,” said Blandford, laughing, “Wilderham’s all very well, you know, Cruden,” continued he, “but it’s a grind being cooped up there when you’ve got your chance of a fling.”
“Well, you’ve not wasted your chances, my boy,” said Mr Pillans, who, besides being empty-headed, was unhealthy in complexion, and red about the eyes.
Blandford appeared rather flattered than otherwise by this observation, and told Mr Pillans to shut up and not tell tales out of school.
“I suppose Wilderham hasn’t changed much since last term?” asked Reginald wistfully.
“Oh no; plenty of fellows left and new ones come—rather a better lot, take them all round, than we had last term.”
“Has the football club been doing well again?” asked the old boy.
“Oh, middling. By the way, the fellows growled rather when you only sent them half-a-sov. instead of a sov.”