The boy gave his wistful, ingenuous smile.
The curate scarcely knew whether to expect him or not, and could indeed hardly have told the reason of his own unpremeditated suggestion.
He was a simple, kind-hearted fellow, ardently and naïvely convinced that the only way to God lay through Anglo-Catholicism.
“Come in!” he gladly exclaimed, when the half-expected knock came at his door. “Come in, Aviolet! Delighted to see you—sit down, do. You look cold.”
“It is cold,” said the boy, shivering.
“Are you one of those unhappy people who suffer from bad circulation? I’m one of the lucky ones myself, but I’ve been told that some poor fellows spend half the year feeling as though a jug of ice-cold water had been poured down their spines. I hope you’re not as bad as that.”
“I was born in Ceylon. I think that’s why I feel the cold so much.”
“Ah, yes, I daresay. And can you remember much about the East?”
“A good deal,” said Cecil more eagerly. “I know it was very jolly out there, and I liked it all very much. I was only a little chap when we came home, of course, but I can remember our bungalow, and a sort of Public Gardens place, with red flowers, where the ayahs used to take the children after tea every day. I think I must have had a very good time out there.”
“Ah, you know it’s an axiom that Eastern children are always spoilt. But at least you’ve made up for lost time, Aviolet. Your form-work is quite up to the average, I think.”