“Yes. And you really didn’t look like it, only I thought it might make you feel a bit happier. Is it necessary to say, ‘Don’t waste the water,’ or would you be insulted?”
“I should think I would,” declared Tom; “we’ve got a drought of our own, haven’t we?” He strode off, returning presently to find a brimming tumbler awaiting him in the cool dimness of the shaded dining-room.
“That’s gorgeous!” he declared, putting down the empty glass. “I had a drink from the tap in the bathroom first, because, of course, no drink is really long enough in weather like this, and——”
“You shouldn’t have drunk that water,” stated Jean anxiously. “It isn’t drinking-water. Now we ought to sterilize you.”
“Any water’s drinking-water in weather like this,” said Tom, unmoved. “Besides, it will get thoroughly boiled when I go out into the heat again, so why worry? Water is always purified if you submit it to a high enough temperature—and goodness knows the thermometer is doing its best to break records to-day. How’s your pupil-teaching going, Jean?”
“Oh, well enough,” Jean answered. “We’re beginning to feel we’re making some progress. At first we were very scared of our job, but we are plucking up courage now. Rex is getting much more like an ordinary boy, and that’s a comfort. We were afraid he’d never be ordinary, but it’s surprising to see how soon polish like his disappears among plain and honest folk!”
“Is that what you are?” Tom demanded, round-eyed.
“Yes—very plain and honest. Don’t you dare to say we’re not, Tom Holmes!”
“All right,” said Tom, meekly; “I won’t; only just you remember it wasn’t me that said you were plain. And what about the riding-lessons? Is the kid shaping well at that?”
“Oh, rather. Father says he took to it from the start like a duck to water. He goes cantering round the home-paddock now on old Merrilegs, with Billy on one of our ponies. Sits well too, and he has good hands. He tried to jump a log the other day, and came to grief, but he didn’t mind.”