“If he would only study her feelings in the broader things of life,” he said to himself; and he took a turn or two impatiently about the room.
“Now, governor, I’m ready,” said Cyril, facing round suddenly, his mother holding his hand between hers. “What’s the last thing I’ve done amiss?”
“Heaven knows,” cried the Rector, startling his wife by the way in which he suddenly flashed into anger. “The last thing that I have to complain of is that I cannot trust my own son.”
“Ah, you mean with money, father,” said the young man, lightly. “Well, it does go rather fast.”
“I mean my son’s word,” said the Rector, quickly. “Cyril, last night you told me a lie.”
“Oh, no, no, no,” cried the mother, quickly. “It is some mistake, dear. Cyril would not tell you what was not true.”
The Rector, after years of patience, was so thoroughly out of temper with the discovery of that day that he retorted hotly—
“A lie—I say he told me a deliberate lie.”
“Nonsense!” said the young man. “People tell lies when they are afraid to tell the truth. I’m not afraid to tell you anything.”
“You told me last night, sir, that you had been down in the town with Frank, whereas I find this morning that you had been at Kilby Farm.”