"The terms aren't high, because it's purposely for people in our class of life," rejoined Edgar. "But for all that I know mother can't afford to let you go back yet."
"Then," said Giles, passionately, "I've a great mind to say I won't learn of Dora. Why! She's only five years and two months older than I."
"That's a good deal now we're all young," said Edgar, putting on the coat and hat he had been brushing, "Though I don't suppose we shall find it much when we grow up. Now come along, if you are going to the station; I don't want to miss my usual train."
Then as they walked along, he tried to change the conversation to a more cheerful subject. But Giles was feeling very sore this morning, and he would not be taken from his grievance.
"All I can say," he continued, ignoring his brother's kind efforts, "is that I shan't try to do my lessons for Dora. When I'm sent to school again I'll work as well as anybody."
Edgar had not before realised that any additional responsibility would fall on him in consequence of his father's absence. Now he saw it was his duty to take his father's place to the utmost of his power, and talk to Giles as he would have talked had he been there. A new light was suddenly thrown on the words that had been said to him, as to the eldest son, on their father's last evening at home.
"That spirit will never do, Giles," he remarked.
"I don't care," grumbled Giles. "I'm over ten, and I think it's a great shame to be treated like a baby."
"I don't know about being treated like a baby. I know you are behaving like one."
Edgar spoke very gently. There was no contempt in his voice, and no anger; only a kind and fond interest was expressed. Perhaps for this reason Giles blushed and looked ashamed. Nevertheless, he put on an air of indifference.