The boy did not blench at his father’s spurious austerity, he knew he was the soul of kindness and fun.
“Go wash yourself at the sink,” interposed his mother. Kevin Tincler, taking his son by the hand, continued with mocking admonishment: “All the fine copybooks of the world that you’ve filled up with that blather about cleanliness and holiness, the up strokes very thin and the down strokes very thick! What was it, Mary, he has let it all out of his mind?”
“Go and wash, Felix, and come quickly and have your tea,” laughed Mary Tincler.
“Ah, but what was it—in that grand book of yours?”
The boy stood, in his short buff tunic, regarding his father with shy amusement. The small round clear-skinned face was lovely with its blushes of faint rose; his eyes were big and blue, and his head was covered with thick curling locks of rich brown hair.
“Cleanliness comes next to godliness,” he replied.
“Does it so, indeed?” exclaimed his father. “Then you’re putting your godliness in a pretty low category!”
“What nonsense,” said Mary Tincler as the boy left them.
The Irishman and his dark-eyed Saxon wife sat down at the table waiting for their son.
“There’s a bit of a randy in the Town Gardens tonight, Mary—dancing on the green, fireworks! When the boy is put to bed we’ll walk that way.”