“Quite,” said William. “I should not myself undertake the task of punishing any child; but I am afraid, unless the parents are prepared to pull him up now and then for idleness or inattention, you will find his progress far from satisfactory.”
“That is a question quite for them,” said Mrs. Kincton Knox, in her queenlike way.
William bowed.
“What I want chiefly in a person—in a gentleman in your capacity—is that he shall begin to—my precious child shall begin to associate with a superior mind, and imbibe rather by contact than task-work. Do I make myself clear? The—a—the—you know, of course, the kind of thing.”
William did not apprehend quite so clearly the nature of his duties as he would have wished, but said nothing.
“You and he will breakfast with us at half-past nine. I regret I cannot ask you to lunch. But you and Howard will dine at three o’clock in this room, and have tea and any little thing that Mrs. Ridgeway, the housekeeper, may send you at six. The boy goes to his bed at half-past nine, and I conclude you already know your own room.”
“And where is my pupil?” inquired William.
Mrs. Kincton Knox rang the bell. “He shall be with you presently, Mr. Herbert, and you will please to bear in mind that the dear boy’s health is just at present our first object, and that he must not be pressed to study more than he wishes.”
Master Howard Seymour Knox entered, eyeing the tutor suspiciously and loweringly. He had, perhaps, heard confidentially of possible canings, and viewed William Maubray with a sheepish kind of malevolence.