“I only hope,” said William sternly, “that she won’t ’spect me to talk to her.”
“She’ll expect you to play with her, I’m sure,” said his mother.
“Play?” said William. “Play? With a girl? Me? Huh!”
William, pale and proud, and dressed in his best suit, his heart steeled to his humiliating fate, went with his mother to the Hall the next week. He was silent all the way there. His thoughts were too deep for words. Mrs. Brown watched him anxiously.
An over-dressed Mrs. Bott was sitting in an over-furnished drawing-room. She rose at once with an over-effusive smile and held out over-ringed hands.
“So you’ve brought dear little boysie,” she began.
The over-effusive smile died away before the look that William turned on her.
“Er—I hadn’t thought of him quite like that,” she said weakly, “but I’m sure he’s sweet,” she added hastily.
William greeted her coldly and politely, then took his seat and sat like a small statue scowling in front of him. His hair had been brushed back with so much vigour and application of liquid that it looked as if it were painted on his head.
“Would you like to look at a picture book, boysie?” she said.