Miss Clement, with some severity, denied the accusation. "Indeed, I have no dog." And it was clear from her manner that she had no such associates.
Now all boys were alike to Miss Clement. The only striking features in this one's face were his eyes. Their heavy lids, coming far down over the iris, gave a half shut, drowsy look to his face, and Miss Clement felt sorry that his parents should be afflicted with such a stupid child. His fat, cherubic little mouth, however, seemed to indicate a cheerful spirit. As the two sat facing each other, the young male and the adult super-civilized female, the lady from some undefined reason felt ill at ease. Yet she knew that nothing was more absurd than a woman of her age being ill at ease in the presence of a nine-year-old boy. As she looked again into his eyes she began to realize that their very drowsiness gave an impression of abnormal serenity and repose—as of concealing hidden depths of wisdom. Also they seemed to be sitting in judgment on her. The fact of his being a boy aroused antipathy. Although she knew that many good men had once been boys, as certain butterflies have once been worms. Moreover, she knew it was not really his own fault that he had come into the world in that form. They were necessary evils, like taxes and old age.
"Are you Dr. Alton's son?" she asked.
"Yes, ma'am."
"What is your name?"
"Cyrus."
While Miss Clement was wondering why New Englanders persisted in giving such names to helpless children she was startled by his saying, regretfully:
"You don't like that name."
"Not like it? Why do you think I don't like it?"
"I know by your face."