“I know, Mrs. Gage,” said father, in a gentle sort of way he has, “that you will be sorry you have hurt this boy. If you knew him, when you know him, I am sure you will want to apologize.”
“Know him!... Apologize to a young tramp!...” Mrs. Gage turned and went into the house, slamming the screen after her, and Banty followed. Then she gave Banty what for, and didn’t take a bit of trouble to lower her voice. “You heard what I said,” she says. “You keep away from that ragamuffin.”
“But Mr. Moore says—”
“I don’t care what Mr. Moore says. I sha’n’t put up with his crazy ideas. The idea! Mr. Moore ought to know better, but he doesn’t seem to. After this you keep away from the Moores.”
Dad looked down at me and smiled sort of humorous and at the same time sort of sad, and then he came down off the porch and walked right up to Catty.
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am that this thing happened,” he said, and looked straight into Catty’s eyes. “I know Mrs. Gage didn’t intend to be cruel. She doesn’t understand, that’s all. You mustn’t be hard on the rest of us because some people don’t understand things. You won’t, will you?... And remember that you are always welcome here and that I am glad to have Wee-wee play with you. We’re going to have dinner in a few minutes and I shall be very glad indeed if you will stay and eat with us.”
“Eat with you!” says Catty, and looked down at his clothes.
“Of course.”
“I hain’t never been invited to dinner no-wheres. I wouldn’t know how to act.”
“Catty, there’s folks in this world who always know how to act. The finest manners I ever saw were shown by a French lumberjack who couldn’t write his name. Being a gentleman doesn’t consist in knowing which fork to use first, Catty. Those things are just trimmings, but a gentleman is a gentleman because he’s got something inside—something that I know you’ve got. Do you know what a gentleman is, Catty, and what it is that makes any man good enough to dine with any other man, or to do anything else in the world with any other man?”