“Yes,” said Lady Royland, sadly; “it is Master Pawson playing. He is waiting for you, Roy.”
“Yes, playing,” said the boy, hotly. “It makes me think of what I read with him one day about that Roman emperor—what was his name?—playing while Rome was burning. But don’t you fret, mother; London won’t be burnt while father’s there.”
“You do not realise what it may mean, my boy.”
“Oh, yes, I think I do, mother; but you don’t think fairly. You are too anxious. But there! I must go up to him now.”
“Yes, go, my boy; and you will not cause me any more anxiety than you can help?”
“Why, of course I won’t, mother. But if it is going to be a war, don’t you think I ought to learn all I can about being a soldier?”
“Roy! No, no!” cried Lady Royland, wildly. “Do I not suffer enough on your father’s account?”
“There, I won’t say any more, mother dear,” said Roy, clinging to her arm; “and now I’ll confess something.”
“You have something to confess?” said Lady Royland, excitedly, as she stopped where they were, just beneath the corner tower, and quite unconscious of the fact that a head was cautiously thrust out of one of the upper windows and then drawn back, so that only the tip of an ear and a few curls were left visible. “Then, tell me quickly, Roy; you have been keeping back some news.”
“No, no, mother, not a bit; just as if I would when I know how anxious you are! It was only this. Old Ben is always grumbling about the place going to ruin, as he calls it, and I told him, to please him, that he might clean up some of the big guns.”