Hamlet followed him downstairs, but still with reluctant dignity. The moment of his surrender had been covered, and he did not know that he would now surrender after all. He would see. Meanwhile he smelt food, and where food was he must be.
Tea was in the schoolroom. Miss Jones, the governess, was away on her holiday, and Jeremy saw at once that the worst thing possible had occurred: his Aunt Amy, whom he did not love, was in charge of the tea-table. He had fantastic thoughts when he saw his aunt, thinking of her never as a human being, but as an animal, a bird, perhaps. A crow. A vulture. Something hooked and clawed. But to-day she was determined that she would be friendly.
“Sit down, Jeremy dear. You’re very late, but on the first day we’ll say nothing about it.”
His mother should have been here. Where was his mother?
“Have you washed your hands? Mother has callers. . . . There is blackberry jam and also strawberry. Your welcome home, Jeremy.”
He would have neither. He loved blackberry. Still more he loved strawberry. But he would have neither. Because Aunt Amy had asked him. His eye was on Hamlet, who was sulking by the door.
“I do hope, dear, that you’re not going to have that dog with you everywhere again. All the time you were away he was in the kitchen. Very happy there, I believe.”
Jeremy said nothing.
Aunt Amy, who was, I think, to be applauded for her efforts with a sulky boy, bravely persevered.
“Do tell us, dear, about this last time at school. We are all so eager to know. Was it cricket or football, dear, and how did your work go?”