Mr. Kendal looked serious, and Mr. Ferrars feared that the winter cares had so far told on her temper, that perplexity made her wilful in self-sacrifice. There was a pause, but just as she began to perceive she had said something wrong, the lesser Maurice burst out in exultation,
‘There, it is not indestructible!’
‘What mischief have you been about?’ The question was needless, for the table was strewn with snips of calico.
‘This nasty spelling-book! Lucy said it was called indestructible, because nobody could destroy it, but I’ve taken my new knife to it. And see there!’
‘And now can you make another?’ said his uncle.
‘I don’t want to.’
‘Nor one either, sir,’ said Mr. Kendal. ‘What shall we have to tell Uncle William about you! I’m afraid you are one of the chief causes of mamma not knowing how to go to London.’
Maurice did not appear on the way to penitence, but his mother said, ‘Bring me your knife.’
He hung down his head, and obeyed without a word. She closed it, and laid it on the mantel-shelf, which served as a sort of pound for properties in sequestration.
‘Now, then, go,’ she said, ‘you are too naughty for me to attend to you.’