“Humph!” grunted his uncle, taking up the morning paper that Mary had just brought in; and without another word he sat back in his chair and began to read, while Tom, with his face still burning, turned once more to his book, with a strange elation beginning to take the place of the indignation he felt against his uncle, for it had suddenly occurred to him that this was the last time he would have to make his head ache over the hard, brain-wearying work. Then the elation died out again, for what was to be his future fate?
He was musing over this, and wondering whether after all he dare trust Pringle, when the door suddenly opened, Uncle Richard rustled and lowered the paper, and Mrs Brandon entered the room, looking wonderfully bright and cheerful.
“Good-morning, Richard,” she cried; “I am so sorry I am late. James will be down directly. Good-morning, Tom.”
Tom jumped in his chair at this pleasantly cordial greeting, and stared dumbfounded at his aunt.
“Not a bit late,” said Uncle Richard, after a glance at his watch. “You are very punctual. Hah, here is James.”
For at that moment Mr Brandon, looking clean-shaven and pleasant, entered the room.
“Morning, Dick,” he cried; “what a lovely air. Ah, Tom, my boy, got over the skirmish?”
Tom babbled out something, and felt giddy. What did it mean? Could they have divined that he was about to run away, and were going to alter their treatment; or had Uncle Richard, who seemed again so grave and cold, been taking his part after he had gone to bed?
But he had very little time for dwelling upon that; the question which troubled him was, How could he go away now?
The thoughts sent him into a cold perspiration, and he glanced anxiously at the clock, to see that it was a quarter past eight, and that in fifteen minutes, according to custom, he must start for the office—for the office, and then—where?