"Ay, to despise Lag-last," said Elvira, darting out of his reach, and
tossing her dark locks at him as she hid behind a fern plant in the
window; and there was a laughing scuffle, ended by Miss Ogilvie, who
swept the children away to the school-room, while Allen came to the
table, where his mother had poured out his coffee, and still waited
to preside over his breakfast, though she had long finished her own.
Allen Brownlow, at twenty, was emphatically the Eton and Christchurch
production, just well made and good-looking enough to do full justice
to his training and general getting up, without too much individual
personality of his own. He looked only so much of a man as was
needful for looking a perfect gentleman, and his dress and equipments
were in the most perfect quietly exquisite style, as costly as
possible, yet with no display, and nothing to catch the eye.
"Well, Bobus," he said, "you made out your expedition. How did the
place look?"
"Wasting its sweetness," said his mother; "it is tantalising to think
of it."
"It could hardly be said to be wasted," said Bobus; "the natives were
disporting themselves all over it."
"Where?" asked Allen, with displeased animation.
"O, Essie and Ellie were promenading a select party about the
gardens.
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