The man touched his hat and drove off.
“Now,” said Claudia, “we can talk in peace. You asked me if I knew your father,” she went on, speaking partly to set the boy at ease, for she saw he looked anxious and nervous. “No, I can’t say I know him. I only saw him once for a moment, but I thought he had the kindest eyes in the world. And when I first saw Char—your sister, I remembered his face again.”
“Yes,” said Jerry, gratified, but too anxious to rest there, “papa is as kind as he looks. I wish you could see mamma though! But it’s about Charlotte I want to speak to you. Miss Meredon, will you promise never to tell anybody you’ve seen me? I’ve planned it all on purpose—coming out here and waiting on the road to meet you. Will you promise me? I shall never tell any one.”
Claudia looked at the anxious little face.
“Won’t you trust me?” she said. “Tell me first what it is you want of me, and then—if I possibly can, and I dare say I can—I will promise you never to tell any one.”
Jerry looked up at her again.
“Yes,” he said, “I’ll tell you. It’s about the German prize. Charlotte is breaking her heart about it—I mean about knowing she won’t get it.”
Claudia’s face flushed.
“But how does she know she won’t get it?” she said. “It isn’t decided—the essays aren’t even given in yet. Mine is not more than half done.”
“I know—she’s working at hers now. She’s working awfully hard, though she has no hope. You are much cleverer; you’re cleverer at everything, she says, and especially German. But you can’t ever have worked harder than she’s done. I suppose you learnt German in Germany? Of course that leaves no chance for the others.”