Still he waited, striving for politeness.
“I’ve got something for you,” Mary suddenly said, dropping her voice in the sentimental manner that he hated. Then, as though she were ashamed of what she had done, she took the parcel to the bed and undid the paper with clumsy fingers.
“There,” she said, “I got it for you because I thought you’d like it.”
He looked at it; it was a book: it was “Swiss Family Robinson”: it was a companion to his “Robinson Crusoe.” He stared at it: he could say nothing.
“You do like it, don’t you?” she asked, gazing at him anxiously. “It’s got lots and lots of pictures. There was a funny shop at the end of the street and I went in with Miss Jones and the man was very nice. And I thought it was just what you’d like. You do like it, don’t you?” she asked again.
But he could only stare at it, not coming forward to touch it. He was buried deep, deep in shame. There came a rattle then on the door and Helen’s voice:
“Mary, if you’re in there with Jeremy, mother says you’re to come at once and have your hair brushed because it’s five minutes to supper.”
“Oh, dear, I’d forgotten.” And with one last glance of anxiety towards Jeremy she went.
Still he did not move. Could anything possibly have happened to prove to him what a pig he was, what a skunk and a cur? Mary had bought it with her own money, five and threepence halfpenny out of ten shillings.
He did not touch the book, but with chin set and eyes resolved, he went down to supper. When the meal was finished he said to Mary: