Michael felt the pricking of the form’s ears and blushed hotly.
“My mother’s away,” he stammered.
“Oh,” said Mr. Macrae bluntly, “and who is this person then?”
Michael nearly choked with shame.
“My governess—my sister’s governess, I mean,” he added, desperately trying to retrieve the situation.
“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Macrae. “I see.”
The form tittered, while the crimson Michael stumbled back to his desk. It was a long time before Avery grew tired of Miss Carthew or before the class wearied of crying ‘Maudie’ in an united falsetto whenever Michael ventured to speak. Mr. Macrae, too, made cruel use of his advantage, for whenever Michael tripped over an irregular verb, Mr. Macrae would address to the ceiling in his soft unpleasant voice sarcastic remarks about governesses, while every Monday morning he would make a point of putting on his glasses to examine Michael’s home-book very carefully. The climax of Michael’s discomfort was reached, when a snub-nosed boy called Jubb with a cockney accent asked him what his father was.
“He’s dead,” Michael answered.
“Yes, but what was he?” Jubb persisted.
“He was a gentleman,” said Michael.