“Yes, if you like,” said Helen, who felt that the boy was gaining upon her more and more: for, in spite of his coarseness, there was a frank, merry, innocent undercurrent that, she felt, might be brought to the surface, strengthened and utilised to drive the roughness away.
“Read here!” said the boy, opening the book at random. “Oh, here’s a picture. What are these girls doing?”
“Leave the pictures till afterwards. Go on reading now.”
“Here?”
“Yes; at the beginning of that chapter.”
“I shall have to read it all, as there’s no other boy here. We always stand up in a class at the House, and one boy reads one bit, and another boy goes on next, and then you’re always losing your place, because it’s such a long time before it comes round to your turn, and then old Sibery gives you the cane.”
“Yes, yes; but go on,” said Helen, with a feeling of despair concerning her father’s protégé.
Dexter began to read in a forced, unnatural voice, with a high-pitched unpleasant twang, and regardless of sense or stops—merely uttering the words one after the other, and making them all of the same value.
At the end of the second line Helen’s face was a study. At the end of the fourth the doctor roared out—
“Stop! I cannot stand any more. Saw-sharpening or bag-pipes would be pleasant symphonies in comparison.”