“Why, my poor hard-working boy,” she said gently. “So this is where you are; and, oh dear, oh dear! Euclid again. That Mr Limpney will wear your brains all away. There, come along, I am going to play to papa, and then you and I will have a game at draughts.”
Dexter rose with his heart beating, and that strange sensation of something tugging at his conscience. Why were they all so kind to him to-night, just when he was going away?
“Why, you look quite worn out and dazed, Dexter,” said Helen merrily. “There, come along.”
“Eh? Where was he? In mischief?” said the doctor sharply, as they entered the drawing-room.
“Mischief? No, papa: for shame!” cried Helen, with her arm resting on the boy’s shoulders. “In your study, working away at those terrible sides and angles invented by that dreadful old Greek Euclid.”
“Work, eh? Ha! that’s good!” cried the doctor jovially. “Bravo, Dexter! I am glad.”
If ever a boy felt utterly ashamed of himself, Dexter did then. He could not meet the doctor’s eye, but was on his way to get a book to turn over, so as to have something to look at, but this was not to be.
“No, no, you have had enough of books for one day, Dexter. Come and turn over the music for me. Why! what’s that?”
“That?” said Dexter slowly, for he did not comprehend.
“Yes, I felt it move. You have something alive in your pocket.”