His father had never said anything of this sort to him yet, but, by a violent stretch of imagination, he could just conceive it.
His mother, of course, would cry over him, and so would Ethel.
"Dear William ... do forgive us ... we have been so miserable since you went away ... we will never treat you so again."
This again was unlike the Ethel he knew, but sorrow has a refining effect on all characters.
He entered the gate self-consciously. Ethel was at the front-door. She looked at his torn shirt and mud-caked knees.
"You'd better hurry if you're going to be ready for lunch," she said coldly.
"Lunch?" faltered William. "What time is it?"
"Ten to one. Father's in, so I warn you," she added unpleasantly.
He entered the house in a dazed fashion. His mother was in the hall.
"William!" she said impatiently. "Another shirt torn! You really are careless. You'll have to stop being a scout if that's the way you treat your clothes. And look at your knees!"