“But, mother, do you think that literary fame is as great—as glorious—as political or—military even—Wellington and Napoleon were greater—”
“Arthur,” said Frank, in a low, quiet tone, “you have your Greek yet, and your problems—”
“Oh, I hate mathematics!” said the boy, impatient of his cousin’s sober interruption. “A mathematician is never a man of genius. And I have no genius for mathematics,” he added contemptuously, “though you have, I believe, Francis.”
Francis made no reply. He was deep in a problem, and did not look up to answer, or perhaps did not even hear his cousin’s taunt.
Mrs. Harrington had, however, the sense to follow Francis’s suggestion, and remind her son of the lateness of the hour; and taking up her own book, advised him to pursue his studies.
Silence reigned for half an hour perhaps in the little party, which was at last broken by Arthur’s throwing his book on one side, saying, “There—I’ve done with you. Frank, give me the Greek Lexicon.”
Francis complied with his request, saying with surprise, “Do you know it?”
“Yes—well enough—I’ll look it over in the morning.” And in the same way he skimmed through his remaining studies.
“Come, Frank,” said he, at last, “have you not almost done? How you do stick at those problems!” he continued impatiently.
“Presently,” replied the other. “Don’t speak to me now.” And after some minutes intense application, he raised his head with a bright, calm look and said, “I’ve finished. What now, Arthur?”