Harry pushed back his lank hair, and became Omar-ish.
“Do you fast on Friday, may I ask?” he said.
Mrs. Ames looked pained, and tried to think of something to say. She failed. But Mrs. Altham thought without difficulty.
“I suppose Major Ames is away, Mr. Harry?” she said.
Even then, though her intentions might easily be supposed to be amiable, she was not allowed the privilege of being replied to, for Mr. Pettit cheerfully answered Harry’s question, without a shadow of embarrassment, just as if he did not mind what the Omar Khayyam Club thought.
“Of course I do, my dear fellow,” he said, “because our Lord and dearest friend died that day. He allows us to watch and pray with Him an hour or two.”
Harry appeared indulgent.
“Curious,” he said.
Mr. Pettit looked at him for just the space of time any one looks at the speaker, with cheerful cordiality of face, and then turned to his mother again.
“I want you at church next Sunday,” he said, “with a fat purse, to be made thin. I am going to have an offertory to finance a children’s treat. I want to send every child in the parish to the sea-side for a day.”