“Hasn’t he grown!” remarked Mrs. Linley. Some of the flour of the pie which she had been making was on the front of her dress and one of the sleeves. She had transferred a speck or two to her son’s travelling-cloak.
“He hasn’t shaken hands with father yet,” said Master Oziah with the frankness of observant childhood.
“He doesn’t mind; he’s too big for father to thwack!” whispered Master Willie.
“Oh, Tom!—but it was my fault—all my fault!” cried Betsy, releasing her brother, and passing him on to their father almost with the air of introducing the two.
For a moment the musician felt the aloofness of the artist.
“Father—caro padre!” said the boy, who had just returned from Italy.
“Son Tom,” said the father, giving his cheek to be kissed, while he pressed the hand that the boy held out to him.
“What has he brought us, I wonder?” remarked little Oziah to Willie in a moderately low tone.
“Nothing that’s useful, I hope,” said Willie. “People have no business bringing home useful presents.”