“Horrid head he’d got,” said the failure, and shivered histrionically.
They continued to demonstrate their contempt for the infant by many asseverations. The reaction grew. They were all bold now and all wanted to speak. They spoke as the survivors from some common peril; they were increasingly anxious to demonstrate that they had never suffered intimidation and in their relief they were anxious to laugh at the thing which had for a time subdued them. But they never named it as a cause for fear. Their speech was merely innuendo.
At the last, however, I caught an echo of the true feeling.
It was the rubicund man, who, most daring during the crisis was now bold enough to admit curiosity.
“What’s your opinion, sir?” he said to me. The train was running into Wenderby; he was preparing to get out; and he leaned forward, his fingers on the handle of the door.
I was embarrassed. Why had I been singled out by the child? I had taken no part in the recent interjectory conversation. Was this a consequence of the notice that had been paid to me?
“I?” I stammered and then reverted to the rubicund man’s original phrase, “It—it was certainly a very remarkable child,” I said.
The rubicund man nodded and pursed his lips. “Very,” he muttered as he alighted, “Very remarkable. Well, good day to you.”
I returned to my book and was surprised to find that my index finger was still marking the place at which I had been interrupted some fifteen minutes before. My arm felt stiff and cramped.
I read “... this absence of any tangible reason is the more striking the deeper our freedom goes.”