“Grannie said that? Are you sure, Timmy?”
“Yes, and said Uncle Justin would show me. And Uncle Justin wouldn’t. Said—said—Uncle Justin said——”
“Said what, Timothy?”
Timothy scowled adorably.
“Don’t like Uncle Justin. Where’s my motor-car?”
“But Timothy——”
“Want my motor-car.”
And Laura, having been acquainted with that particular tone in the Cloud voice for some thirteen years, gave him his motor-car and said no more.
But she went down to dinner and Justin with bright eyes and a flushed face, and had little to say as she sat thinking across to him over the pot of daffodils.
‘So—so you never told your mother! But you tell her everything! It was decent of you—it was good of you—not to tell your mother....’ And then, with such a pang of pride in him, ‘It was like you. Any one else——It was awfully good of you not to tell your mother.’...