“Oh, yes, I will try if it be possible to make anything of him, when I am up to it.”
Armine was not “up to it” the next day, nor the next. The third was very fine, and with great resignation, he sauntered down to Mrs. Stagg’s.
Percy turned out to be a quiet, gentle, pale lad of fourteen, without cockney vivacity, and so shy that Armine grew shyer, did little but mark the errors in his French exercise, hear a bit of reading, and retreat, bemoaning the hopeless stupidity of his pupil.
A few days later Mr. Ogilvie asked the lame boy how he was getting on.
“Oh, sir,” brightening, “the lady is so kind. She does make it so plain in me.”
“The lady? Not the young gentleman?”
“The young gentleman has been here once, sir.”
“And his sister comes when he is not well?”
“No, sir, it is his mother, I think. A lady with white hair—the nicest lady I ever saw.”
“And she teaches you?”