At his station George leapt for the platform a full minute before the train had stopped. Up the lanes he sent his bursting spirits flying in shrill whistlings and gay hummings; slashed stones with his stick; struck across the fields and took gates and stiles in great spread-eagled vaults.
So up the drive, stones still flying, whistlings still piping.
II.
Upon the lawn he espied Mr. Marrapit and his Mary. She, on a garden seat, was reading aloud from the Times; Mr. Marrapit, on a deep chair stretched to make lap for the Rose of Sharon, sat a little in advance of her.
George approached from Mr. Marrapit's flank; soft turf muffled his strides. The warm glow of kindliness towards all the world, which his success had stoked burning within him, put a foreign word upon his tongue. He sped it on a boisterous note:
“Uncle!” he cried. “Uncle, I've passed!”
Mary crushed the Times between her hands; bounded to her feet. “Oh!” she cried. “Hip! hur—!”
She bit the final exclamation; dropped to her seat. Mr. Marrapit had twisted his eye upon her.
“You are in pain?” he asked.
“No—oh, no.”