William was rather late to lunch. His father and mother and elder brother and sister were just beginning the meal. He slipped quietly and unostentatiously into his seat. His father was reading a newspaper. Mr. Brown always took two daily papers, one of which he perused at breakfast and the other at lunch.
“William,” said Mrs. Brown, “I do wish you’d be in time, and I do wish you’d brush your hair before you come to table.”
William raised a hand to perform the operation, but catching sight of its colour, hastily lowered it.
“No, Ethel dear, I didn’t know anyone had taken Lavender Cottage. An artist? How nice! William dear, do sit still. Have they moved in yet?”
“Yes,” said Ethel, “they’ve taken it furnished for two months, I think. Oh, my goodness, just look at William’s hands!”
William put his hands under the table and glared at her.
“Go and wash your hands, dear,” said Mrs. Brown patiently.
For eleven years she had filled the trying position of William’s mother. It had taught her patience.
William rose reluctantly.
“They’re not dirty,” he said in a tone of righteous indignation. “Well, anyway, they’ve been dirtier other times and you’ve said nothin’. I can’t be always washin’ them, can I? Some sorts of hands get dirty quicker than others an’ if you keep on washin’ it only makes them worse an’——”