“Have you even forgotten how you spilled the currant jelly down the front?”
“Currant jelly?” he repeated, and looked inquiringly toward her. “I have not heard that theory.”
“You were the culprit and ought to know. But strawberry is just as bad, I suppose.”
After a slight hesitation he answered, “Those are blood-stains.”
Turning toward him for further information, she could not help thinking how much more he was in harmony with a tale of pearls and mystery and human blood than with jam or currant jelly. As he made no answer but sat gazing absently at the fire, she expressed a hope that his youthful nose had not collided with the stairs or with the fist of some larger boy.
“No, not that exactly,” he replied, with his eyes still upon the fire. “It is a long story and would not interest you.” Then looking up, he continued, with more animation, “I am glad there is a possibility of your coming to Daleford. It is an ideal place to be quiet in.”
“So Mr. Fettiplace tells us, but you are mistaken about the history of the jacket. It would interest me, and I should like extremely to hear it; unless of course you prefer not to tell it.”
“If you wish to hear it that is reason enough for the telling, but—isn’t it rather cruel to force a man to talk only about himself?”
“No; not in this case. It gives an opportunity to prove, by the perfection of your boyhood, that you are less vile than you believe Horace Bennett to have painted you.”
“That would be impossible. No human record could wipe out an effect once laid in by such a hand. Besides, there is nothing in the jacket to repair a damaged reputation.”