behind a curtain fold, and seemed to vanish as a crab does amidst the shingles.
"Three minutes yet to dinner, and two before the lettercarrier goes," said the host, glancing at his watch. "Mr. Fairthorn, will you write a note for me?" There was a mutter from behind the curtain. Darrell walked to the place, and whispered a few words, returned to the hearth, rang the bell. "Another letter for the post, Mills: Mr. Fairthorn is sealing it. You are looking at my book-shelves, Lionel. As I understand that your master spoke highly of you, I presume that you are fond of reading."
"I think so, but I am not sure," answered Lionel, whom his cousin's conciliatory words had restored to ease and good-humour.
"You mean, perhaps, that you like reading, if you may choose your own books."
"Or rather, if I may choose my own time to read them, and that would not be on bright summer days."
"Without sacrificing bright summer days, one finds one has made little progress when the long winter nights come."
"Yes, sir. But must the sacrifice be paid in books? I fancy I learned as much in the play-ground as I did n the schoolroom, and for the last few months, in much my own master, reading hard in the forenoon, it is true, for many hours at a stretch, and yet again for a few hours at evening, but rambling also through the streets, or listening to a few friends whom I have contrived to make,—I think, if I can boast of any progress at all, the books have the smaller share in it."
"You would, then, prefer an active life to a studious one?"
"Oh, yes—yes."
"Dinner is served," said the decorous Mr. Mills, throwing open the door.
