“No, no, my son,” said Linnell, senior, thoughtfully. “There’s a deal of wickedness in this world, but I suppose we mustn’t go about throwing stones.”
“I’m not going to, father, and I’m sure you wouldn’t throw one at a mad dog.”
“Don’t you think I would, Dick?” with a very sweet smile; and the eyes brightened and looked pleased. “Well, perhaps you are right. Poor brute! Why should I add to its agony?”
“So long as it didn’t bite, eh, father?”
“To be sure, Dick; so long as it didn’t bite. I should like to run through that adagio again, Dick, but not if you’re tired, my boy, not if you’re tired.”
“Tired? No!” cried the young man. “I could keep on all day.”
“That’s right. I’m glad I taught you. There’s something so soul-refreshing in a bit of music, especially when you are low-spirited.”
“Which you never are, now.”
“N-no, not often, say not often, say not often. It makes me a little low-spirited though about that woman and her mother, Dick.”
“I don’t see why it should.”