Wilkins! might that not account for Wikkey's odd name? Wilkins, Wilky, Wikkey; it did not seem unlikely.
That evening, Reginald, entering his cousin's sitting-room, found Lawrence leaning back in his arm-chair on one side of the fire, and on the other his strange little guest lying propped up on the sofa, which had been drawn up within reach of the glow.
"Well," he said, "so this is Wikkey; how are you getting on, Wikkey?"
The black eyes scanned his face narrowly for a moment, and then a high weak voice said in a tone of great disapprobation:
"It wouldn't warm a chap much fur to look at him; he ain't much to look at, anyhow;" and Wikkey turned away his head and studied the cretonne pattern on his sofa, as if there were nothing more to be said on the subject.
Evidently, the fair, almost fragile face which possessed such attraction for Lawrence in his strength had none for the weakly boy; possibly he had seen too many pale, delicate faces to care much about them.
But Lawrence, unreasonably nettled, broke out hotly—
"Wikkey, you mustn't talk like that!" while the curate laughed and said:
"All right, Wikkey, stick to Mr. Granby; but I hope you and I will be good friends yet;" then drawing another chair up to the fire he began to talk to his cousin.
Presently the high voice spoke again—