His mother looked up from the pot of oatmeal porridge she was ladling out into little bowls for the breakfast.
"That's right," she said; "you look better than you did last night. Try and have a good day at school to-day, Gratian. Monday's always the best day for a fresh start."
Gratian listened, but did not answer. It generally took him a good while to get his speeches ready, except perhaps when he was alone with Jonas and Watch. It seemed easier to him to speak to Jonas than to anybody else. He began eating his porridge—slowly, porridge and milk spoonfuls turn about, staring before him as he did so.
"Mother," he said at last, "is it naughty to dream?"
"Naughty to dream," repeated his mother, "what do you mean? To dream when you're asleep?"
"No—I don't think it's that kind," began the child, but his mother interrupted him. Her own words of the night before returned to her mind. Could Gratian have overheard them?
"You mean dreaming when you should be working, perhaps?" she said. "Well, yes—without saying it's naughty, it's certainly not good. It's wasting one's time. Everybody's got work to do in this world, and it needs all one's attention. You'll find it out for yourself, but it's a good thing to find it out young. Most things are harder to learn old than young, Gratian."
Gratian listened, but again without speaking.
"It's very queer," he was thinking to himself—"mother says the same thing."