"You got the little brush, Richard?" he asked, his voice changing to a tired sigh. "The adornment has got in the way again."
The boy brushed back the fallen hair—wiped away the sweat.
"Your mother," said Mr. Poddle, faintly smiling, "does it better. She's used—to doing it. You ain't—done it—quite right—have you? You ain't got—all them hairs—out of the way?"
"Yes."
"Not all," Mr. Poddle gently persisted; "because I can't—see—very well."
While the boy humoured the fancy, Mr. Poddle lay musing—his hand still straying over the coverlet: still feverishly searching.
"I used to think, Richard," he whispered, "that it ought to be done—in public." He paused—a flash of alarm in his eyes. "Do you hear me, Richard?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Sure?"
"Oh, yes!"