"
"But they were his own. He couldn't be a bishop without them."
"That fact doesn't render them immune from laughter. My present hat,
for instance, is my own, and yet you have been laughing at it ever
since I called your attention to it."
"Not at all; I have been admiring it. I said it was well enough, and
so it is. What more can you want?"
"I only hope," I said, "that Frederick will think so too. It would be
too painful to dash the cup of half-holiday joy from a boy's lips by
wearing an inappropriate hat."
"You're too nervous altogether about the impression you're going to
make on Frederick. Take example by me. I've got a hat on."
"You have," I said fervently. "It has grazed my face more than once."
"It is feeding," she said, "on your damask cheek. But I'm quite calm
in spite of it."
"But then," I said, "you never knew Rowell."
"No. Who was he?"
"Rowell," I said, "was a schoolfellow of mine, and he had a father."
"Marvellous! And a mother too, I suppose."
"Yes," I said, "but she doesn't come into the story. Rowell's father
had a passion, it appears, for riding, and one dreadful afternoon,
when we were playing cricket, he rode into the cricket-field.
Pages:
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59