“He's a good fellow; I like him anywhere but in the pulpit,” muttered he, below his breath. “And he 'd like to write to his daughter; she's a governess in some family near Putney, I think. I 'll go and see her; Dolly and I are old playfellows. I don't know,” added he, with a laugh, “whether hockey and football are part of a polite female education; but if they be, the pupils that have got Dolly Stewart for their governess are in rare luck.”
“But why must there be all this hurry?”
“Because it's a whim of mine, dear little mother. Because—but don't ask me for reasons, after having spoiled me for twenty years, and given me my own way in everything. I 've got it into my wise head—and you know what a wise head it is—that I 'm going to do something very brilliant. You 'll puzzle me awfully if you ask me where or how; so just be generous and don't push me to the wall.”
“At all events, you 'll not go without seeing the doctor?”
“That I will. I have some experience of him as a questioner in the Scripture-school of a Saturday, and I 'll not stand a cross-examination in profane matters from so skilled a hand. Tell him from me that I had one of my flighty fits on me, and that I knew I 'd make such a sorry defence if we were to meet, that, in the words of his own song, 'I ran awa' in the morning.'”
She shook her head in silence, and seemed far from satisfied.
“Tell him, however, that I 'll go and see Dolly the first day I'm free, and bring him back a full account of her, how she looks, and what she says of herself.”
The thought of his return flashed across the poor mother's heart like sunshine over a landscape, spreading light and gladness everywhere. “And when will that be, Tony?” cried she, looking up into his eyes.
“Let me see. To-morrow will be Wednesday.”
“No, Tony,—Thursday.”