“No,” said Judy, her small mouth tightening a little. “When he saw it in the newspaper this morning he was simply furiated. He is a very boracic man.”
The boy stifled an explosion.
“Isn’t she funny?” he whispered.
“O! boracic,” said Gilead; and added, in some vague association of ideas, “Is he a doctor?—O! no; a clergyman, I suppose?”
The boy plucked his sleeve.
“He’s neither the one nor the other,” he confided to his private ear. “He’s a radical.” He spoke the word with a weight of social significance. “He stood for Henley in the last by-election, but our man beat him at the post. He doesn’t live here. He’s only taken the house for the summer. He isn’t a gentleman, you know; he’s a radical; but she’s all right.”
The magnificence of the distinction quite silenced Gilead. He walked on while the boy strutted on; but suddenly he was moved very sweetly to feel little confiding fingers thrust into his.
“Please,” said the little girl, who had slipped round to his side, “have you really and truly come about Pilot?”
“Really and truly,” said Gilead, looking down with a smile. “Do you want to part with him?”
“No,” said the child, flushing very pink.