His unskilled manipulation hurt a good deal; but Roy, overcome with gratitude, gave no sign.
When it was over they set out for their homeward tramp, and found the bicycle, as Desmond had prophesied. He refused to ride on; and Roy limped beside him, feeling absurdly elated. The godlike one had come to earth indeed! Only the remark about his mother still rankled; but he felt shy of returning to the subject. The change in Desmond's manner had puzzled him. Roy glanced admiringly at his profile—the straight nose, the long mouth that smiled so readily, the resolute chin, a little in the air. A clear case of love at sight, schoolboy love; a passing phase of human efflorescence; yet, in passing, it will sometimes leave a mark for life. Roy, instinctively a hero-worshipper, registered a new ambition—to become Desmond's friend.
Presently, as if aware of his thought, Desmond spoke.
"I say, Sinclair, how old are you? You seem less of a kid than most of the new lot."
"I'm ten and a half," said Roy, wishing it was eleven.
"Bit late for starting. I'm twelve. Going on to Marlborough next year."
Roy felt crushed. In a year he would be gone! Still—there were three more terms: and he would go on to Marlborough too. He would insist.
"Does Scab Ma. bother you much?" Desmond asked with a friendly twinkle.
"Now and then—nothing to fuss about."
Roy's nonchalance, though plucky, was not quite convincing.