"
Abner began to repeat paragraphs from _Hints and Helps_. "'It is best
to remark,'" he opened, in an unnatural voice, "'How well you are
looking!' although fulsome compliments should be avoided. When seated
ask the young lady who her favorite composer is.'"
"What's a composer?" inquired Ross, with visions of soothing-syrup in
his mind.
"A man that makes up music. Don't butt in that way; you put me all
out--'composer is. Name yours. Ask her what piece of music she likes
best. Name yours. If the lady is musical, here ask her to play or
sing.'"
This chanted recitation seemed to have a hypnotic effect on the
freckled boy; his big pupils contracted each time Abner came to the
repetend, "Name yours."
"I'm tired already," he grumbled; but some spell made him rise and
fare farther.
When they had entered the Claiborne gate, they leaned toward each
other like young saplings weakened at the root and locking branches to
keep what shallow foothold on earth remained.
"You're goin' in first," asserted Ross, but without conviction. It was
his custom to tear up to this house a dozen times a week, on his
father's old horse or afoot; he was wont to yell for Champe as he
approached, and quarrel joyously with her while he performed such
errand as he had come upon; but he was gagged and hamstrung now by the
hypnotism of Abner's scheme.
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