"I'm glad you arn't going to let mother teach us any longer. I'll do my best to get on nicely, and perhaps I can help a bit with Lottie's lessons. Mother often used to ask me to set her some sums to work."
Dora was feeling both disappointed and downhearted that Olive and Lottie should have expressed so much dissatisfaction with the new arrangement, and these unexpected words greatly comforted her.
"Thank you, Giles," she said, and, in spite of her endeavours to force them back, the tears would come into her eyes. "I hope to make your lessons easy and interesting to you. I shall try to do so at any rate, and we must be patient with each other, mustn't we?"
This was not quite what Giles had looked for. Dora seemed almost to be pleading for his obedience and attention. He was very sorry he had had hard thoughts of her that morning, and perhaps he would have told her of them, and of the better spirit that now influenced him had not Robert at that moment entered the room.
"It's thawing fast, isn't it, Giles?" he asked.
"Yes, I heard one man say to another that he shouldn't be surprised if we had rain before night. I suppose there won't be much skating after all."
"No," said Robert, and a certain troubled look that his face had worn lately rolled away like a cloud before sunshine. Then almost immediately he asked, "Will you help me find my school books, Giles? I haven't begun my holiday task yet, and it's time I set about it."
Giles would rather have done anything than this, for while searching for the books—Robert never knew where to find his possessions—he should be thinking of the school he had liked so much, and from which he had been so unexpectedly removed. Without a word, however, he began to hunt for the missing volumes, and in a little while Robert, with pencil and paper in hand, was hard at work upon a simple equation in algebra.
As Giles glanced up from his story-book, and saw his brother at the table, an idea, "just a lovely one," as Dora frequently said of her own thoughts, came into his mind.
Why should he not do at home what he would have been doing had he been at school? He had just begun Latin when he had been taken away; he had, in fact, mastered the first three declensions. Now, with a feeling of shame, Giles found himself unable to decline the singular of "Mensa." Well, he would begin again. Edgar would help him, he knew, and he would work hard at all his studies, so that when he went to school again, he might be placed in a higher form than that in which he had been when he left. Yes, that was what he would do, and perhaps Robert would teach him algebra. He would puzzle it out as much as possible for himself, so that it would only be a little help he should need. And here Giles, practical little Giles, did an unheard-of thing. He dreamed a day-dream, which for brilliancy of colouring and impossibility of attainment rivalled those of Dora herself.