“What!” said Smedley, rather alarmed. “Surely you’re not going to—”
“To roast the doctor? No. But we’re going to make this the crack house of the school in spite of him.”
Smedley laughed.
“Good! You’ve a busy time before you, old man. I’ll promise to keep it dark—ha! ha!”
“You may think it a joke, dear old chap,” said Ainger, standing at the door and watching his retreating figure, “but even the captain of Grandcourt will have to sit up by-and-by.”
Smedley, the brave and impetuous, walked straight from Railsford’s to the doctor’s. He knew his was a useless mission, but he wasn’t going to shirk it. The doctor would snub him and tell him to mind his own affairs; “but”—so said the hero to himself—“what do I care? I’ll tell him a piece of my mind, and if he like to tell me a piece of his, that’s only fair. Here goes!”
The doctor was engaged in his study, said the servant; but if Mr Smedley would step into the drawing-room he would come in a few minutes. Smedley stepped into the dimly-lighted drawing-room accordingly, which, to his consternation, he found already had an occupant. The doctor’s niece was at the piano.
Smedley, for once in a way, behaved like a coward, and having advanced a step or two into the room, suddenly turned tail and retreated.
“Don’t go, Mr Smedley,” said a pleasant voice behind him. “Uncle will be here in a minute.”
“Oh, I—good-evening, Miss Violet. I’m afraid of—”