He wondered vaguely what had induced him to take upon himself the responsibility of the small child, and with remorseless judgment analysed the reason as being personal vanity.
The door opened and a child strode in. “Strode” is the only word to describe the quick, decisive movement of the bright-eyed lad who looked with unflinching eye at Cartwright. Cartwright did not look at his clothes, but at the grey, clear eyes, the firm mouth, extraordinarily firm for a boy of fourteen, and the capable and not over-clean hands.
“Sit down, son,” said Cartwright. “So you’re my nephew.”
“Cousin, I think,” said the boy, critically examining the contents of Cartwright’s table. “You’re Cousin Alfred, aren’t you?”
“Oh, I’m a cousin, am I? Yes, I suppose I am,” said Cartwright, amused.
“I say,” said the boy, “is that the school bill? The Head has been rather baity about that.”
“ ‘Baity’?” said the puzzled Cartwright. “That’s a new one on me.”
“Shirty,” said the boy calmly. “Annoyed, I suppose, is the correct word.”
Cartwright chuckled.
“What do you want to be?” he asked.