He was a very good-looking boy, with smooth black hair and regular features like his brother, Percy. Perhaps because he was, according to his mother’s view, very much advanced for his age, he regarded her rather as a backward child, to whom it would be highly desirable, but unfortunately practically impossible, to explain life as it is now lived.
Lady Kellynch was doing a peculiar little piece of bead embroidery. She did it every day for ten minutes after lunch with a look at Clifford every now and then, occasionally counting her beads, as if she was not altogether quite sure whether or not he ate them when she wasn’t looking. This was the moment that she always chose to have conversation with him, so as to learn to know his character. A couple of suitable books, “The Jungle Book,” and “Eric, or Little by Little,” were placed on a low table by Clifford’s side; but, as a matter of fact, he was reading The English Review.
“Clifford darling!”
He put the magazine down, shoving a newspaper over it.
“Well, mother?”
“Tell me something about your life at school, darling.”
He glanced at the ceiling, then looked down for inspiration.
“How do you mean?”
“Well, haven’t you any nice little friends at school, Clifford—any favourites?”
He smiled.