Jimbo, too, felt something in his microcosmic way, only he said little and asked no single question. It betrayed itself, however, to his Mother's widened vision. He was all stirred up. He came back again from school at three o'clock—for it was Thursday and he did not take the singing lesson from three to four—put down his books with a very business-like air, forgot to kiss his Mother—and went out.
'Where are you off to, Jimbo?' She scented mischief. He was so affaire.
He turned obediently at once, the face grave and puckered.
'Going over to the carpenter's house, Mummy.'
'What for, dear? Why don't you stay and play here?' She had the feeling that her husband was absorbed in his work and would not like to be disturbed.
The boy's reply was evasive too. 'I want to have a long discuss with
Daddy,' he said.
'Can't you have your long discuss with me instead?' she asked.
He shook his head. 'You see,' he answered solemnly, 'it's about things.'
'But Daddy's working just now; he'll be over to tea at four. Can't it wait till then?'
She understood too well to inquire what 'things' might be. The boy wished to speak with one of his own sex—as one man to another man.