“Not I!” said Taswell, quickly. “But it’s a great mistake to suppose that children are not alive to things. There is a whole world of intuitive knowledge behind those bright, watchful black eyes of his.”
Elaine stopped short, looking at Taswell with a kind of horror. Several seconds passed before she spoke. “He’s just an ordinary naughty little boy!” she said breathlessly. “There’s nothing special about him! Just an ordinary little boy!” The words seemed to be torn from her.
Taswell’s eyes expressed a wonder at the sharpness of her tones. “Of course!” he said. “Just a vigorous, strong-willed little boy. The real problem lies in your situation.”
“What do you mean?” she demanded.
“You’re so rich!” he said.
“What difference does that make to him?” she asked haughtily. “If he has always lived in a big house, where the wheels are greased, and the proper things appear at the proper times—if he has never known anything different, how could his character be affected by it?”
“It isn’t the big house, and the comforts. It’s being surrounded by servants; people subservient to him.”
“That’s why I wanted somebody like you.”
“Exactly,” he said good-humoredly. “But . . .” He spread out his hands.
“If you had a small son of your own,” she demanded, not without scorn, “would you not know how to deal with him?”