Dallas, who had shifted uneasily in his chair, cleared his throat with some energy, rose and stood looking out of the window.
“The splendid gentleman forgot to take the boy in his arms. He looked him over and lisped: ‘A pretty boy—but what a pity he has such a leg!’ A queer thing to say, wasn’t it, Hobhouse!
“One of those fits of rage that made all right-minded people hate him came over the boy when he heard that. ‘Dinna speak of it! Dinna speak of it!’ he screamed, and struck at the man with his fist. Then he ran away—off to the fields, I think—as fast as he could, and that was the first and the last time he ever saw his father.
“He had forgotten all about his tutor, but the tutor ran after him, and found him, and took him for a wonderful afternoon—miles away, clear to the seaside, where they lay on the purple heather and he read to him out of the history—what was it he read to the boy, Dallas?”
The man by the window jumped. “Bless my soul,” he said, wiping his eyes vigorously; “I do believe it was the battle of Lake Regillus!”
“Yes, it was, Dallas! And they went in swimming and had supper at a farmhouse—”
“So they did! So I believe they did!”
“And they didn’t get home till the moon was up. Ah—Dallas!”
Gordon went over and laid his hand on the other’s arm. “Do you think I shall ever forget?” he said.
“I imagine that was the end of the tutorship,” observed Hobhouse.