“It’s not yours any more, my son,” said Mr. Brown firmly.
Ethel walked along with lips tight shut.
In the distance, walking towards them, was a tall, jaunty figure. It was Mr. French, who, ignorant of what had happened, was coming gaily on to meet them returning from church. He was smiling as he came, secure in his reception, composing airy compliments in his mind. As Ethel came on he raised his hat with a flourish and beamed at her effusively. Ethel walked past him, without a glance and with head high, leaving him, aghast and despairing, staring after her down the road. He never saw Mr. and Mrs. Brown. William realised the situation. The future half-crowns and two-shilling pieces seemed to vanish away. He protested vehemently.
“Ethel, don’t get mad at Mr. French. He di’n’t mean anything! He only wanted to do sumthin’ for you ’cause he was mad on you.”
“It’s horrible!” said Ethel. “First you bringing that dreadful animal to church, and then I find that he’s deceived me and you helped him. I hope Father takes the other one away.”
“He won’t,” said William. “He never said anything about that. The other’s learnin’ to be friends with Jumble in the shed. I say, Ethel, don’t be mad at Mr. French. He——”
“Oh, don’t talk about him,” said Ethel angrily.
William, who was something of a philosopher, accepted failure, and the loss of any riches a future allied with Mr. French might have brought him.
“All right!” he said. “Well, I’ve got the other one left, anyway.”
They entered the drive and began to walk up to the front-door. From the bushes came a scampering and breaking of twigs as Jumble dashed out to greet his master. His demeanour held more than ordinary pleasure: it expressed pride and triumph. At his master’s feet he laid his proud offering—the mangled remains of Cromwell.