“Poor boy! It was a sad blow to him, wasn’t it? It quite wrung my heart to see him so restless, and out of spirits, but thank heaven that is all over now, for I couldn’t have borne it if your grandfather had agreed to let him join! I daresay it was just a boyish fancy—but Richmond has such good sense!”

Anthea looked up, as though she would have spoken; but she apparently thought better of the impulse, and closed her lips again.

“Depend upon it,” said Mrs. Darracott comfortably, “he will never think of it again, once he has gone to Oxford. Oh dear, how we shall miss him! I don’t know what I shall do!”

The crease which had appeared between Anthea’s brows deepened. She said, after a moment’s hesitation: “Richmond has no turn for scholarship, Mama. He has failed once, and for my part I think he will fail again, because he doesn’t wish to succeed. And here we are in September, so that he will be more than nineteen by the time he does go to Oxford—if he goes—and he will have spent another year here, with nothing to do but to—”

“Nothing of the sort!” interrupted Mrs. Darracott, bristling in defence of her idol. “He will be studying!”

“Oh!” said Anthea, in a colourless voice. She glanced uncertainly at her mother, again hesitated, and then said: “Shall I ring for some working-candles, Mama?”

Mrs. Darracott, who was engaged in darning, with exquisite stitches, the torn needlepoint lace flounce to a petticoat, agreed to this; and in a very short space of time both ladies were deedily employed: the elder with her needle, the younger with some cardboard, out of which she was making a reticule, in the shape of an Etruscan vase.