“Not now, my dear.”
“Why, what’s the matter, mother?” said the boy, anxiously. “You’re as white as can be. Got one of your headaches?”
“No, my boy,—at least, my head does ache. But it is my heart, Roy,—my heart.”
“Then you’ve heard bad news,” cried the boy. “Oh, mother, tell me; what is it? Not about father?”
“No, no; Heaven forbid, my dear,” cried Lady Royland, wildly. “It is the absence of news that troubles me so.”
“I ought to say us,” said Roy, angrily; “but I’m so selfish and thoughtless.”
“Don’t think that, my boy. You are very young yet, but I do wish you would give more thought to your studies with Master Pawson.”
The boy frowned.
“I wish you’d let me read with you, mother,” he said. “I understand everything then, and I don’t forget it; but when that old—”
“Master Palgrave Pawson,” said Lady Royland, reprovingly, but with a smile.