“The kindest thing to think,” said Ethel, “is that he’s mad.”
“Well,” said William, “I don’ know what I’ve done ’cept cast aside deceit an’—an’ the other thing what he said in church an’ speak the truth an’ that. I don’ know why every one’s so mad at me jus’ ’cause of that. You’d think they’d be glad!”
“She’ll never set foot in the house again,” sobbed Aunt Emma.
Uncle Frederick, who had been vainly trying to hide his glee, rose.
“I don’t think she will, my dear,” he said cheerfully. “Nothing like the truth, William ... absolutely nothing.”
He pressed a half-crown into William’s hand surreptitiously as he went to the door....
******
A diversion was mercifully caused at this moment by the arrival of the post. Among it there was a Christmas card from an artist who had a studio about five minutes’ walk from the house. This little attention comforted Aunt Emma very much.
“How kind of him!” she said, “and we never sent him anything. But there’s that calendar that Mr. Franks sent to us and it’s not written on. Perhaps William could be trusted to take it to Mr. Fairly with our compliments while the rest of us go for a short walk.” She looked at William rather coldly.
William who was feeling the atmosphere indoors inexplicably hostile (except for Uncle Frederick’s equally inexplicable friendliness) was glad of an excuse for escaping.