"Johnson—his father is a barrister."
Did Margaret hear a catch in his breath as Mr. Medhurst said: "Ah, Johnson."
Again there was silence, and then:
"Did you believe the boy's statement?" asked Mr. Medhurst, still in that dull, toneless voice of indifference.
"Believe him, father!" The light of indignant scorn flamed into the boy's eyes and rang in his voice: "Believe him, believe that of my father!"
Mr. Medhurst suddenly leaned forward, a new expression in his face, an interested alertness in his voice.
"I see—you trust me—eh? Then why such excitement over the boy's remark?"
"I punished his insolence, sir. How dared he say such a thing!"
"You knocked him out, evidently. I don't suppose he'll offend again, though I fancy his father may object. This may mean a doctor's bill, but never mind that, I expect there is no serious damage. You had better stay at home until Monday, and meanwhile I will write to Dr. Armstrong. And another time, keep your temper, my son, and treat such remarks with the cold contempt they deserve. I think we must be better friends in the future, eh?" he added. The kindly smile which lit his face as he spoke these last words transfigured it; tears glistened in the boy's eyes.
Margaret left the room hurriedly, a great hope and joy tugging at her heart; for the first time since she came to Oaklands she had seen an expression of affection pass between father and son.