“I’m not ashamed of it,” he said. “I used to be at the workhouse. Won’t you shake hands!”
Edgar sniffed contemptuously, and turned his head away.
“Very well,” said Dexter sadly. “I don’t want to, if you don’t.”
Edgar suddenly leaped up, and went along by the side of the river, while Dexter, after a few moments’ hesitation, began to follow him in a lonely, dejected way, wishing all the time that he could go back home.
Following out his previous tactics, Edgar sidled along path after path, and in and out among the evergreen clumps, all the while taking care not to come within sight of the house, so that his actions might be seen; while, feeling perfectly helpless and bound to follow the caprices of his young host, Dexter continued his perambulation of the garden in the same unsatisfactory manner.
“Look here,” cried Edgar at last; “don’t keep following me about.”
“Very well,” said Dexter, as he stood still in the middle of one of the paths, wondering whether he could slip away, and return to the doctor’s.
That seemed a difficult thing to do, for Sir James might see him going, and call him back, and then what was he to say? Besides which, when he reached the doctor’s there would be a fresh examination, and he felt that the excuse he gave would not be satisfactory.
Dexter sighed, and glanced in the direction taken by Edgar.
The boy was not within sight, but Dexter fancied that he had hidden, and was watching him, and he turned in the other direction, looking hopelessly about the garden, which seemed to be more beautiful and extensive than the doctor’s; but, in spite of the wealth of greenery and flowers, everything looked cheerless and cold.