He mumbled something, blushing to the eyes as he caught his sister Helen’s ironical supercilious glance.
“I hope your master was pleased with you, dear.”
He burst out: “I was whacked twice.”
Aunt Amy sighed. “The less about that, dear, the better. We want to know what you did well!”
How strange that in the train he had eagerly desired this moment—and now he had nothing to say.
“I don’t know,” he murmured. “There was a chap called Bates got bunked for stealing.”
Aunt Amy sighed again. “Yes, Helen dear, you can go if you’ve really finished. Wipe your mouth, Mary.”
Hamlet was watching his master. More than ever now were recollections stealing upon him. His master was unhappy, just as he used to be unhappy. He was hating that dark, strange-smelling animal (smelling of soap, the smell that Hamlet most avoided) whom Hamlet also hated.
Yes, everything was returning. . . .