When the children got home they spread the Latin book on the table in the window, to catch the last rosy sunset light, and Charles said with proud affection:
‘Now, Rupert! We don’t want any old translation when you’re here.’
Rupert frowned, and the girls shrank as sensitive plants shrink when a finger touches them. They knew the sort of bitter thing about its not being worth while to do things for kids, which seemed to be trembling on Rupert’s lips. But quite quickly his face changed. He turned red—or was it only the deepened red of the sunset?—and said:
‘You know, I’m afraid I’ve kidded you rather about my Latin. I’m not very good at it as a matter of fact. I’ve only just begun Virgil.’
‘But you do know a lot. You’re always saying bits of it,’ said Charles anxiously.
‘That was swank,’ said Rupert strongly; ‘silly swank. It was all wrong, I expect. There, now it’s out!’
The children treated Rupert with added respect.
‘How splendid of him to own up about the Latin,’ said Caroline over the hair-brushing. And Charlotte reminded her sister that she had always thought Rupert splendid, which was not true, though she thought it was.
But this was later. At the moment, ‘Never mind,’ said Charlotte, ‘we shall have the translation to-morrow, and we’ll try a spell at once. I’m sorry the leopard that spoke was only you, Rupert. We did think you’d have to believe in spells after that.’