Challis shook his head. “You can’t understand, Crashaw,” he said.
“I do understand,” said Crashaw, rising to his feet, “and I intend to see that the statute is not disobeyed in the case of this child, Victor Stott.”
Challis shrugged his shoulders; Mr. Forman assumed an expression of stern determination.
“In any case, why drag me into it?” asked Challis.
Crashaw sat down again. The flush which had warmed his sallow skin subsided as his passion died out. He had worked himself into a condition of righteous indignation, but the calm politeness of Challis rebuked him. If Crashaw prided himself on his devotion to the Church, he did not wish that attitude to overshadow the pride he also took in the belief that he was Challis’s social equal. Crashaw’s father had been a lawyer, with a fair practice in Derby, but he had worked his way up to a partnership from the position of office-boy, and Percy Crashaw seldom forgot to be conscious that he was a gentleman by education and profession.
“I did not wish to drag you into this business,” he said quietly, putting his elbows on the writing-table in front of him, and reassuming the judicial attitude he had adopted earlier; “but I regard this child as, in some sense, your protégé.” Crashaw put the tips of his fingers together, and Mr. Forman watched him warily, waiting for his cue. If this was to be a case for prayer, Mr. Forman was ready, with a clean white handkerchief to kneel upon.
“In some sense, perhaps,” returned Challis. “I haven’t seen him for some months.”
“Cannot you see the necessity of his attending school?” asked Crashaw, this time with an insinuating suavity; he believed that Challis was coming round.
“Oh!” Challis sighed with a note of expostulation. “Oh! the thing’s grotesque, ridiculous.”
“If that’s so,” put in Mr. Forman, who had been struck by a brilliant idea, “why not bring the child here, and let the Reverend Mr. Crashaw, or myself, put a few general questions to ’im?”