“What was the use?”
“But how could we know you were not happy if you never said anything?”
“He knew, without my never saying anything.” The boy pointed at the schoolmaster, who sat with downcast eyes.
“So it appears,” the lady said somewhat tartly, “although you seem to me to have said a good deal. That will do, Reginald; you may go.”
But Reginald did not go. He looked at the schoolmaster, and he looked at his aunt. He took a step forward, exclaiming earnestly: “If you will let me be like other boys, Aunt Amabel, I won’t be a policeman when I’m grown up; I’ll give it up; I’ll truly be something else.” The boy spoke as one who promises to part with some long-cherished and imperishable ideal.
“Oh, child!” exclaimed poor, puzzled Aunt Amabel, “I can’t imagine what you are talking about. Do run away.”
“You see,” said the boy sadly to the schoolmaster, “she never can understand,” and he hastened from the room.
The schoolmaster rose. “Believe me,” he said gently, “I do not want your nephew for a pupil. I’d far rather keep him as a friend—I don’t mean to say that a master can’t be a friend to his boys, but the relationship must necessarily be a little different, and it has been a pleasant experience to come across a boy under quite new circumstances. I wouldn’t spoil it for the world.”
Aunt Amabel looked down, and the schoolmaster noticed that her eyelashes were long and very black. “I am sure you mean kindly,” she said gently, “and you may be sure I shall give every consideration to what you have said.”
When her strange visitor had gone she sat for a long time quite still in front of her table, staring with unseeing eyes at the many papers scattered upon it. She knitted her black eyebrows and thought and thought, but apparently to no purpose, for presently she said to herself: “What could he mean by calling that little boy a misogynist, and what on earth could the child mean about not being a policeman?”