“Twice won’t kill his liking,” she returned affectionately.
And then she went out of the room. She always had plenty to do. Small though he was, Robin was a marvelous consumer of his mother’s time.
When Dion got to the gymnasium Mrs. Clarke and Jimmy were already there, and Jimmy, in flannels and a white sweater, his dark hair sticking up in disorder, and his face scarlet with exertion, was performing feats with an exerciser fixed to the wall, while Mrs. Clarke, seated on a hard chair in front of a line of heavy weights and dumb-bells, was looking on with concentrated attention. Jenkins was standing in front of Jimmy, loudly directing his movements with a stentorian: “One—two—one—two—one—two! Keep it up! No slackening! Put some guts into it, sir! One—two—one—two!”
As Dion came in Mrs. Clarke looked round and nodded; Jimmy stared, unable to smile because his mouth and lower jaw were working, and he had no superfluous force to spare for polite efforts; and Jenkins uttered a gruff, “Good day, sir.”
“How are you, Jenkins?” returned Dion, in his most off-hand manner.
Then he jerked his hand at Jimmy with an encouraging smile, went over to Mrs. Clarke, shook her hand and remained standing beside her.
“Do you think he’s doing it well?” she murmured, after a moment.
“Stunningly.”
“Hasn’t he broadened in the chest?”
“Rather!”