Next it fell on all that could be seen of Eglantine's companion.
"What an appalling cap!" whispered Ethel.
Then they advanced to welcome them.
"Here we are," said the tall man, with a note of relief in his voice. "Here we are ... we've had a delightful time—er—quite a delightful time—er—on the whole—er—just a little misunderstanding at one point—a—temporary separation, but all's well that ends well. It's too kind of you. This is—er—Eglantine, and—er—this little boy is an orphan, poor little chap!"
Mrs. Brown laid her hand tenderly on the tweed cap. "Poor little boy," she began. "Poor little——" then she met the eyes beneath the tweed cap. "William!" she said sharply, "take off that horrible cap and go and wash your face."
******
William, clean and brushed and frowning, sat and glared across the table at his late friends. He felt himself disgraced for ever. He was a pariah, outside the pale, one of the "swanks" who lived in big houses and talked soft. His mother's and Ethel's intonation and accent seemed at that moment a public humiliation to him. He did not dare to meet Eglantine's eyes. Fiercely he munched a currant bun. Into his unoccupied hand stole a small grimy one.
"Never moind," whispered Eglantine, "yer carn't 'elp it."
And William whispered gratefully, "Not much."