He said nothing about the unpleasant experience of the first night of his stay at the Oaks, or of certain sneering remarks to which he had afterward been occasionally subjected by Bertram Shaw, but told of the kindness with which he had been treated by his entertainers, and of the sports and pleasures in which he had participated.
The captain noted with much inward satisfaction that his boy’s narrative was free from both censoriousness and egotism, also that he seemed to have nothing to conceal from his father, but talked on as unreservedly as if his sisters had been his only auditors.
In fact, Max was becoming very thoroughly convinced that he could not have a wiser, truer, better friend, or safer confidant, than his father, and was finding it a dear delight to open his heart to him without reserve.
Violet rejoined them presently, and Max found in her another attentive and interested listener.
But Max was not allowed to do all the talking; there were other topics of discourse beside that of his experience at the Oaks; and in these every one took part.
They were all in a jovial mood, full of mirth and gladness, and time flew so fast that all were surprised when the clock, striking nine, told them the hour for evening worship had arrived.
As soon as the short service was over the children bade good-night and went to their rooms, the captain, as usual since her sickness, carrying Grace to hers.
When he rejoined his wife he found her sitting meditatively over the fire; but as he stepped to her side she looked up with a bright smile of welcome.
“How nice to have you quite to myself for a little while,” she remarked in a half jesting tone, as he sat down with his arm round her waist and her hand in his.
“My dear,” he said, a trifle remorsefully, “I fear I may sometimes seem rather forgetful and neglectful of you. Do you not occasionally feel tempted to regret having married a man with children?”