“Why, what should I call you?”
“Tom, of course.”
“Oh, I never! one would think you was my brother,” said Patty, looking up with a pretty pertness which she had a most bewitching way of putting on. Tom's rejoinder, and the little squabble which they had afterward about where her work-table should stand, and other such matters, may be passed over. At last he was brought to reason, and to anchor opposite his enchantress, the work-table between them; and he sat leaning back in his chair and watching her, as she stitched away without ever lifting her eyes. He was in no hurry to break the silence. The position was particularly fascinating to him, for he had scarcely ever yet had a good look at her before, without fear of attracting attention, or being interrupted. At last he roused himself.
“Any of our men been here to-day, Patty?” he said, sitting up.
“There now, I've won,” she laughed; “I said to myself I wouldn't speak first, and I haven't. What a time you were. I thought you would never begin.”
“You're a little goose! Now I begin then; who've been here to-day?”
“Of your college? let me see;” and she looked away across to the bar window, pricking her needle into the table. “There was Mr. Drysdale and some others called for a glass of ale as they passed, going out driving. Then there was Mr. Smith and them from the boats about four, and that ugly one—I can't mind his name—”
“What, Hardy?”
“Yes, that's it; he was here about half-past six, and—”
“What, Hardy here after hall?” interrupted Tom, utterly astonished.