Sir Thomas violently banged the table with his open hand, making his wife start.
“That’s what you’ve got to explain, you boy, you. That senseless, idiotic game of pretence ... making a fool of yourself——”
“Hush, Thomas,” pleaded Lady Aviolet, as his voice rose almost to a shout.
Ford’s was in marked contrast, as he interposed. “You were always a braggart, Cecil, even as a small boy. I remember the imaginary stories about yourself that you used to tell, by way of boasting. It’s a common failing, of course, but most people outgrow it after seven or eight years old.”
“Stop it,” said Rose suddenly. “If you’ve any more to say, any of you, say it to me. I’m Cecil’s mother, I brought him up, and if he’s got this failing, as Ford says he has, that other boys outgrow, then it’s because I’ve not dealt rightly with him.”
Dr. Lucian, never taking his eyes off Cecil, saw that his lips formed the word “No.” Searching desperately for whatever should break through the boy’s utter despair, he recollected the child at Squires, many years ago, who had been punished by his grandfather’s heavy hand, and had made no sound. The doctor had long gauged the depths of the vanity that had made that endurance not only possible, but almost inevitable, to Cecil. Bending forward, he eagerly sought to appeal to that vanity now.
“Cecil, be a man! You’ve plenty of pluck. Don’t let your mother face the music for you. Any one may make a false step. The fellow who’s respected is the one who fights his way up again.”
Cecil turned and looked at him, with frightened, lack-lustre eyes.
The atmosphere vibrated oddly to Maurice Lucian’s tense, impassioned earnestness. “Tell them you’re going to live it down. You’ve got a splendid chance before you. Every man-jack will be wanted before this war’s over, it’s my belief, and you’re going to be one of the very first to go. No one ever had a better chance of wiping out old scores. Tell them you’re going to make the most of it.”
“Yes, I am,” said Cecil, his voice shaking. His face had suddenly begun to work.