The lines were smooth, and some had a certain swing in them such as
Mysie, with an unformed taste, a love for Miss Hacket, and amazement
that the words of a familiar acquaintance of her own should appear in
print, genuinely admired. But the eyes of a youth exercised in
'chaffing' the productions of one of his fellow 'men' were infinitely
more critical. Besides, what could be more shocking to the General's
son than the confusion between the evening gun and the sham fight? And
Mysie had been reduced to confusion for not detecting the faults, and
then pardoned in consideration of being only a girl, by the time the
gong summoned them to the Sunday roast beef.
The dinner over, the female part of the family, scampered headlong
upstairs, while Harry repaired with his mother to her room to talk over
a letter from his father respecting his plans on leaving Oxford. The
other boys hung about the hall, until Gillian and Dolores came down
equipped for walking. 'Hollo, Gill! All right! Where's Mysie? We'll
be off! Mysie! Mice! Mouse! Val!'
'You must wait for them, Japs,' said Gillian. 'They are having their
dresses changed; and, don't you remember, I always go to Miss
Hacket's.'
'Botheration! What for?'
'You know very well.'
'Oh yes. To help her to write touching verses about the sweet dead
dove, with voice and plumage soft as love, eh? Only, Gill, I'm afraid
your memory is failing, if you don't know the evening gun from rifle
practice.
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