Boy’s cheeks paled as suddenly as they had reddened, and he took to the re-measuring of his boot toes.
“Mother didn’t send the letter!” he said slowly,—“that’s how it was. It was not my fault. I wrote to you before I went to school in France!”
Silence fell between them. Miss Letty had much ado to keep back the outward expression of her wounded feeling,—and, as she looked at the lad and began to notice the air of listless indifference which surrounded him like a natural atmosphere exhaled from his own personality, she was conscious of a great bitterness and resentment in her own mind. After a little, however, she managed to control herself, and said gently,—
“Can you recollect what it was you wrote to me about?”
“Oh yes,”—Boy answered readily,—“I wrote to tell you that I was being sent to a school in France, and asked you to try if you could help me not to go. I was a little chap and did not like it.” He paused a moment and reddened at the recollection,—then smiled sheepishly. “But it did not matter!”
Miss Letty thought it did matter,—but she said nothing.
“I went to France,” continued Boy. “It was all right!”
“Did you like the school there?”
“Oh, it was fairly decent!” he answered briefly.
At that moment a diversion was created by the entrance of Major Desmond and his niece. Miss Letty looked a little wearied and wistful as she said,—