William was outraged.
"Me—Peter—that boy?" At his tone of contempt the man's eyes blinked.
"But he's a charming boy," he said indignantly. "Everyone says so—I could show you letters——"
Only at the mental vision of the pond, the tricycle, the wood, the garden, the ten shillings, did William's conscience allow him to pocket his pride.
"He's more like a monkey out of the Zoo than a boy," he said bitterly. "But I'll do it if you'll never tell anyone I pretended to be him."
The man's pride was evidently wounded by William's attitude.
"I should have thought it an honour—I've had most flattering notices. I could show you letters. However, there's no time to argue—as I said, she may be here any minute. I shan't be here—you must see her alone—say you're Peter—I'm afraid you're the wrong type," sadly. "Your hair doesn't curl and it's the wrong colour, and you're too big, and your expression's wrong—not sensitive enough, or gentle enough, or wistful enough——"
William was rather sensitive about his personal appearance. He accepted it with resignation, as the subject of numberless jokes from his own family, but he resented comments on it from outsiders.
"All right," he said coldly, "if all that's wrong with me, you'd better get someone else wot's got his soft, silly face."
"No, no," said the man wildly. "I didn't mean anything—and there's no time, I'm afraid, to procure a more sympathetic type. She may be here any minute—all I want is you to meet her and pretend to be Peter—I shan't be here—you must say that this is your home, and your mother's in bed with a bad headache, and is sorry she can't receive her—then she'll go away—come and tell me when she's gone away—see?"