"Yes," announced the Colonel later that evening to his wife, spreading his hands out as he spoke. "Yes, my dear, I have made a discovery, and an alarming one. You know, I'm rarely at fault where the children are concerned—and I've noted all the symptoms with unusual care. James, my dear, is an imaginative boy."
He paused to note the effect of his words, but seeing none, continued:
"I regret to be obliged to say it, but it's a fact beyond dispute. His head is simply full of things, and he talked to me this evening about tunnels and slippery moonlight till I very nearly lost my temper altogether. Now, the boy will never make a man unless we take him in hand properly at once. We must get him a governess, or something, without delay. Just fancy, if he grew up into a poet or one of these—these——"
In his distress the soldier could only think of horse-terms, which did not seem quite the right language. He stuck altogether, and kept repeating the favourite gesture with his open hand, staring at his wife over his glasses as he did so.
But the mother never argued.
"He's very young still," she observed quietly, "and, as you have always said, he's not a bit like other boys, remember."
"Exactly what I say. Now that your eyes are opened to the actual state of affairs, I'm satisfied."
"We'll get a sensible nursery-governess at once," added the mother.
"A practical one?"
"Yes, dear."