"Lesson books make my head ache," he said; "and I learn a lot of hard words in 'Robinson Crusoe' without thinking. Why can't lesson books be nice like that?"
"You little imp," burst out his mother furiously; "the idea of talking about what you like. You'll be taught by a black woman if I choose; and I'll burn all those rubbishy story-books."
Thus did Mrs. Darrow, who had read nothing but society journals and fashion magazines, blend discipline with criticism.
"I never saw such a child," she wailed; "he's not a bit like me. Oh, Dicky, Dicky, why haven't you your mother's sweet disposition and sweet temper?"
Before Dicky could reply to this truly overwhelming question, to which but one answer was expected, a dried-up little man appeared at the French window opening on to the lawn, and stepped into the room. Hilda half rose to fly from her arch enemy, but being caught, decided it would be undignified to retreat. So she resumed her seat and talked in low tones to Dicky. Mrs. Darrow still lay on her sofa, and welcomed the stranger in the faintest of low tones, meant to be expressive of great weakness.
"How are you, Uncle Barton," she said. "I can hardly speak, I am so ill."
"I know, I know," rasped out the cynic grimly. "I heard you talking to Dicky, no wonder you can't chatter now."
"I must do my duty to my child," cried Mrs. Darrow with more energy, "even though my health suffers."
Mr. Barton surveyed the plump recumbent figure with grim humour.
"You feel your parental duties too much, Julia, they will wear you out. How do you do, Miss Marsh? I see you and Julia have been spoiling your digestions with strong tea. Muffins too! Oh, Lord, think of your complexions!"