‘I cannot have you running about the hills all day with Mr. Restormel, dear,’ said Gundred blandly, but with decision.
‘But why not, mother?’ protested Jim, who, in normal circumstances would probably have said, ‘No, mother,’ and gone all the same, Gundred never knowing.
‘Because I say not, dear,’ replied Gundred inadequately. ‘You must let mother be the best judge of your companions, dear. Mother knows best—yes?’
‘I say, you know, I think it is awfully hard lines. Ivor is the best fellow going. You don’t know him, mother.’
‘Don’t call him Ivor, Jim,’ reproved Gundred. ‘It is not respectful. He is older than you. And that is another reason why I do not like to see you wasting your time with him. He is not good company for you.’
‘Yes; but you always say that. What is there wrong with poor old Ivor?’
Having nothing definite to allege, Gundred, of course, found it necessary to become sibylline and pompous.
‘You must trust mother, dear,’ she answered. ‘There are many things you are too young to know. It is enough for you to remember that mother does not wish you to see too much of Mr. Restormel. You must avoid him as much as possible—though, of course, without being rude and unkind.’
But Gundred’s solemn implication of mysterious knowledge had been played off so frequently that it had long since lost its effect. Jim knew well that it only concealed her invariable jealousy.
‘No,’ he said; ‘I am awfully fond of old Ivor. I don’t see why I should make myself nasty to him. Father likes him no end.’