Читать книгу Housemaster - Major General John Hay Beith - Страница 9

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IT was past eleven, and Mr. Donkin, as you may remember, was due in school at twelve. He was deep in his half-term reports now.

The windows were tightly closed, and the air was thick with tobacco smoke. Mr. Donkin had lit the fire too. This bright morning in early June merely denoted to him that the English summer was setting in with its usual severity.

He was somewhat behind his points: that old bore Frank had wasted twenty minutes of his time. Still, it was just possible to polish the reports off before going up. No, it wasn’t. Maturin minor—a weakly, brooding boy; he mustn’t be disappointed. And he had to go and see the Head on the way. Well, he could manage half a dozen more of the things, anyhow. Who came next? Ah, Nightingale, C. B. H. One Flossie—a bone-idle youth, with charming manners. Mr. Donkin poised his fountain-pen, then wrote:—

A most agreeable boy to deal with, and invariably well satisfied with his own progress; but I should prefer to see a little more enthusiasm from his instructors.

“No parents,” he commented: “I wonder who’ll read that. Uncle Barks, I suppose, if he’s not too preoccupied with the cares of Statesmanship. Fancy old Barks in the Cabinet! Who’s this? Elmsley, J. B. A nervous subject. Due to a pre-natal diet of dry martinis, one is given to understand. Decent father, though.” He wrote:—

I have recently made him a prefect: this added authority should be a help to him. Must cultivate confidence in himself all the time.

He crossed out ‘confidence,’ and wrote the word again, in printed capitals this time.

“Let’s hope dry martinis aren’t too hereditary,” he mused, as he lit another pipe.

Heredity reminded him of something else: Frank Hastings had left without telling him what Barbara had said in her letter about those girls. What were they like, he wondered. Could any of them be as lovely as their mother had been? Or as brilliant? Impossible.

Purvis, A. F., major. An easy one.

A real worker; at his present rate should have no difficulty over Sandhurst next year. A most warlike platoon commander in our O.T.C. Contingent.

Odd, how seldom brains and beauty went together in a woman. Angela had had them. Barbara had brains too, of course—lots—but she had never been a beauty. Bit of a nagger, too. Never managed to get a husband, and no wonder.

Rumford, O., tertius.

Distinctly a personality, but young yet. Has still a good deal to learn in the way of punctuality and personal cleanliness, but is going to be a useful member of the House one day.

She would have been forty-one now—just forty-one. Her eldest daughter must be twenty. Eheu fugaces! But why should Barbara want to consult him about daughters? Wasn’t Bimbo a sufficient nuisance?

There was a knock at the door, and Ellen the parlourmaid appeared—a young person of demure appearance but independent character, as Mr. Beamish had soon discovered.

“There’s a lady came to see you, sir,” she announced, with the indulgent smile which the female sex reserves for fractious children and feeble-minded adults.

“Lady—at this time of day? Who?”

“Miss Fane, sir.”

Barbara already! Mr. Donkin screwed up his fountain-pen resignedly.

“All right; lead her in.”

Next moment he was shaking hands with Angela’s elder sister.