"Never mind! It'll do afterwards," said Edwin.
But George, masticating fish, shook his head. He must be stern with himself, possibly to atone for his tears. And he went off instantly to the cellar.
"Bit chill," observed Edwin to him as he left the room. "A bit chilly" was what he meant; but George delighted to chip the end off a word, and when Edwin chose to adopt the same practice, the boy took it as a masonic sign of profound understanding between them.
George nodded and vanished. And both Edwin and Hilda dwelt in secret upon his boyish charm, and affectionate satisfaction mingled with and softened their apprehensions and their brooding responsibility and remorse. They thought: "He is simply exquisite," and in their hearts apologised to him.
Tertius Ingpen asked suddenly:
"What's happened to the young man's spectacles?"
"They don't suit him," said Hilda eagerly. "They don't suit him at all. They give him headaches. Edwin would have me take him to the local man, what's-his-name at Hanbridge. I was afraid it would be risky, but Edwin would have it. I'm going to take him to London to-morrow. He's been having headaches for some time and never said a word. I only found it out by accident."
"Surely," Ingpen smiled, "it's contrary to George's usual practice to hide his troubles like that, isn't it?"
"Oh!" said Hilda. "He's rather secretive, you know."
"I've never noticed," said Ingpen, "that he was more secretive than most of us are about a grievance."