Cyril was playing a hazardous game for the highest stakes, and under grave disadvantages; and he acted for the best. He guarded his own interests as well as he could.
Mr. Povey found himself obliged to take a serious risk. “Empty your pockets, then.”
Cyril, perceiving that he had lost that particular game, emptied his pockets.
“Cyril,” said Constance, “how often have I told you to change your handkerchiefs oftener! Just look at this!”
Astonishing creature! She was in the seventh hell of sick apprehension, and yet she said that!
After the handkerchief emerged the common schoolboy stock of articles useful and magic, and then, last, a silver florin!
Mr. Povey felt relief.
“Oh, Cyril!” whimpered Constance.
“Give it your mother,” said Mr. Povey.
The boy stepped forward awkwardly, and Constance, weeping, took the coin.