The schoolmaster was baffled, but more curious than ever. He was quite conscious of the implied reproach in the “generally,” and he noted the absence of the courteous “sir” with which any properly constituted boy would conclude a remark made to an elder. But he could not feel that the boy had been willfully rude. He would try again. “May I ask,” he said pleasantly, “why you are so fond of looking at the portrait of Abraham Cowley?”
Again the boy shifted his gaze from the smug charms of the poet to the worn and somewhat homely features of his questioner.
“I like him cos he’s so good-tempered—in this one,” was the brief reply.
The schoolmaster came and stood beside the boy, and looked at the portrait. Above it was another, also by Kneller, but representing him as thin and severe-looking.
“They’re very different, aren’t they?” the schoolmaster remarked. “You’d hardly think they were the same man, would you?”
“I expect,” the boy said solemnly, “in the top one he’s been married.”
This startling supposition fairly took away the schoolmaster’s breath. He racked his brains to remember all he had ever heard or read of Abraham Cowley, and couldn’t for the life of him recollect whether he was married or not. It is not in the nature of a true schoolmaster to leave a youthful mind in the darkness of ignorance if he can be the bearer of a torch whose light may pierce that gloom, so he said: “I expect it was his political troubles that caused so marked a change in his appearance. Do you know anything about him?”
“No, but I like him.”
“Shall I tell you about him?”
“No, thank you,” the boy answered politely, but with firm finality.