Charlotte.
Which is, that that fine strapping young gentleman over there is only fourteen.
Agatha Posket.
Precisely. Isn’t it awkward! and his moustache is becoming more and more obvious every day.
Charlotte.
What does the boy himself believe?
Agatha Posket.
He believes his mother, of course, as a boy should. As a prudent woman, I always kept him in ignorance of his age—in case of necessity. But it is terribly hard on the poor child, because his aims, instincts, and ambitions are all so horribly in advance of his condition. His food, his books, his amusements are out of keeping with his palate, his brain, and his disposition; and with all this suffering—his wretched mother has the remorseful consciousness of having shortened her offspring’s life.
Charlotte.
Oh, come, you haven’t quite done that.