A mother may laugh with a master; she goes and
the joke goes with her: the boy stays behind.
Sibyl Carston, having arranged things entirely to her satisfaction, straightway made preparations to join her husband in that far-off dependency. The preparations were quickly made. She went down to see Dick at school: walked with him through cool cloisters, out into the sun; paced close-shaven lawns; drank in the beauty of it all and expressed a hope that it was sinking into the soul of her son.
“Oh, rather,” said the son, a little surprised that his soul should be discussed. He realized the occasion was a special one, otherwise it was the sort of thing you didn’t talk about. It was there all right, his soul, he supposed. It stirred to the sound of beautiful music; also when he read in history of deeds of valour!—you bet it did—at the greatness of England in general; at the left-hand bowling of one master in particular. It was all there, but he didn’t want to talk about it.
“I understand, darling,” said his mother, “but don’t stifle it.”
He wouldn’t, rather not. “But, I say, what’s this about Diana and this London business and Aunt Elsie? Rough on her, isn’t it?”
“No, darling, I don’t think so. I want Diana to have some fun.”
“There’s lots at Aunt Elsie’s. There are the dogs, they’re good fun, and the rabbits, and the farm. There’s always something to do there. Aunt Elsie is jolly good fun, isn’t she?”
“So is Uncle Marcus.”
“Is he?” This doubtfully.