Somehow his talk prepossessed me still more in his favour. There was a certain refinement in it, a quality of dialogue which indicated thought, as I judged; and I became more and more certain that, whatever I might have to think of it when told, he would yet tell me the truth.
“Come, try me,” I said.
“I will, sir. But I must begin at the beginning.”
“Begin where you like. I have nothing more to do to-night, and you may take what time you please. But I will ring for tea first; for I dare say you have not made any promise about that.”
A faint smile flickered on his face. He was evidently beginning to feel a little more comfortable.
“When did you arrive from London?” I asked.
“About two hours ago, I suppose.”
“Bring tea, Mrs Pearson, and that cold chicken and ham, and plenty of toast. We are both hungry.”
Mrs Pearson gave a questioning look at the lad, and departed to do her duty.
When she returned with the tray, I saw by the unconsciously eager way in which he looked at the eatables, that he had had nothing for some time; and so, even after we were left alone, I would not let him say a word till he had made a good meal. It was delightful to see how he ate. Few troubles will destroy a growing lad’s hunger; and indeed it has always been to me a marvel how the feelings and the appetites affect each other. I have known grief actually make people, and not sensual people at all, quite hungry. At last I thought I had better not offer him any more.