“Well, they say so.”
“If anyone was to say to me that my mother was unwise, I’d—I’d knock him down!” the schoolmaster exclaimed.
“P’r’aps you knew her?”
“Thank God, yes!”
“Ah, I didn’t, you see—and I don’t think I could knock Aunt Amabel down—she’s very strong.”
“Of course not, of course not,” the schoolmaster said hastily. “I never suggested such a thing for a moment. I expect you misunderstand your aunts, and it is possible that they don’t quite understand you.”
The boy said nothing. He no longer stared at Cowley’s portrait. He stared at the schoolmaster, and in his melancholy gaze was concentrated all the bitterness and disappointment of his twelve short years.
“Let us come out and walk by the Cher,” said the schoolmaster.
The boy followed him obediently, and as they turned into Catharine Street, slipped his hand into that of his new acquaintance.
“Twelve years old,” thought that worthy, “and he takes a fellow’s hand. Poor little chap!” Aloud he said: “Boys generally take each other by the arm, you know.”