“Tell us all about it,” he said consolingly.
Then the whole story came forth, aided in the telling by a dexterous question or two.
“Idiot,” muttered David, arriving at the kernel of the matter.
“I didn’t mean to be naughty,” said Antony quaveringly.
“You weren’t naughty.” David’s voice was assuring. “It was Louisa who didn’t understand. You aren’t a beggar boy; you never were a beggar boy. You are,” David’s voice was firm, “exactly the same as you always have been.”
Elizabeth’s heart was singing a curiously joyful song, considering what extraordinarily little difference the announcement made to her individually.
“Exactly,” said David again, “as you always have been.”
“Deo gratias,” whispered Elizabeth below her breath.
“And here,” said David, “comes the sun, to laugh at you for your fears, and dry us all.”
The clouds had broken. Through the rifts between them the sun poured forth, sparkling on diamond-hung hedges and trees, turning the pools in the roadway to little mirrors of fire. The rain became the thinnest veil of silver, presently mere scattered drops.