Essie's eyes wince as though herself she felt the blow. "Not hard?"
"As hard as ever I could."
"Oh, dear!" says Essie reproachfully. "You never ought to do that, you know. Just a slap—that's nothing. I've fetched one of my Sunday-school boys a slap before now. But losing your temper, you know!"
"He wanted it," said Mr. Wriford.
"That's what you think," says Essie. "Well, never mind about that now. Just tell me."
He tells her. He finds himself less indifferent to her sympathy as he proceeds. He finds it rather a relief to be telling her of it—rather pleasantly novel to be telling anybody anything. He tells her from the moment of his blow at Cupper, and why the blow was struck, to the furious onset of Mr. Pennyquick, slashing among the boys with his cane—the humourous aspect of which he for the first time perceives and laughs at—and he finds himself, as he concludes, rather leaning towards the sympathy he expects.
But the sympathy is not for him; nor does Essie, who usually can see a joke in nothing at all, laugh at Mr. Pennyquick's wild gallop among his pupils.
"Oh, those poor boys!" says Essie. "Don't I just feel sorry for them!"
"You wouldn't if you knew them."
"Wouldn't I, though! I wish I had half your chance!"