There is a certain proverb about a prophet in his own country. His thoughts wandered over several masters at his school, whom he considered to be in crying need of reformation, but the same applied to them. When, finally, the tea-bell sounded forth its summons, he was still undecided on whom to apply his latent powers of reformation.
His family, who had not passed so peaceful a Sunday afternoon for weeks, looked at him in curiosity as he entered the dining-room.
"What have you been doing all afternoon, dear?" said his mother solicitously.
"Jus' thinkin'," said William coldly. Meditation on his family's need for reformation had made him realise afresh all he suffered at their hands.
"Not dead yet?" said Robert jocularly.
"No," said William with a quelling glance, "though anyone might be with what I've got to put up with. It's a good thing I'm strong."
He then transferred his attention to a large piece of bread and butter and the conversation drifted away from him. Idly he listened to it.
"It's so funny," Ethel, his grown-up sister, was saying, "to come to a country place like this and take no part in the life. He's so mysterious. He took Beechwood over a month ago and hardly a soul's seen him. He never has anyone in and he never goes out."
"Of course," contributed Robert with the air of a man-of-the-world. "A country place like this is an ideal place for murderers or other criminals to hide in. That's notorious. Much safer than London."
"And hardly anyone's seen him," said Ethel.