“I don’t believe he will ever be sent for,” said Mrs. Hardy calmly.
The sergeant laid aside his knife and fork, and brought his hand down on the table. “Now understand, Bess, once for all, I’m not going to bring up other people’s children. If I had a son of my own it would be different. How do we know how this little shaver will turn out? His head is crammed full of notions, and he thinks no more of telling a lie than I do of telling the truth.”
“Some one has to bring him up,” said Mrs. Hardy; “and he only tells stories out of politeness. He will get over it.”
“I told you before that he’s different from us,” said the sergeant irritably. “Don’t tease, Bess.”
“No, I won’t, Stephen,” she said quietly; “perhaps you are right, only”—
“Only what?” asked her husband.
“Only I’m lonely here all day without you,” she said in a low voice.
“Will you give me a cup of tea?” asked her husband. “You’re not crying, are you?” he went on suspiciously.
“No, Stephen; I cried enough last night to last me for a long time.”