“Well, I think he is. But I—Lord Charlesbury, I don’t want him sent to school.”
He gave a low whistle.
Rose watched him anxiously.
“It would be a dreadful wrench for you—I understand absolutely. It isn’t so very long since I sent my Hugh off, looking such a little fellow too—and, of course, for a mother——”
“Oh, it’s not that!” cried Rose. “You don’t suppose that I’d stand in his way for one moment, if I thought school was going to be the best thing for him! But you see, I don’t.”
“But why not?”
“He’s not like other children. He—he’s got a fault. Poor darling! He doesn’t speak the truth.”
“That is a great pity,” said Charlesbury gravely. “But unfortunately it’s not a very uncommon failing. Children outgrow it.”
Rose suddenly felt that she and this kind, well-bred man, whom she liked so much, were not really talking the same language. He did not despise or condemn, as did the Aviolets, but neither did he understand.
“I don’t think Cecil knows what truth is,” she faltered despondently. “It’s something lacking in him—I don’t even believe that it’s his fault. But it’s dreadful!”