“I wish you could, father,” the boy said. “I know I hate it.”
Mr. Lane began to be really puzzled. There was something pathetic in the words, and especially in the way they were spoken. He stared at Eustace meditatively.
“So you hate it, do you?” he said rather limply at last. “Well, that’s a step in the right direction, at any rate. Perhaps things might have been worse.”
Eustace did not assent.
“They were bad enough,” he said, with a simulation of shame. “I know I’ve been a fool.”
“Well, well,” Mr. Lane said, whirling, as paternal weathercocks will, to another point of the compass, “never mind, my boy. Cheer up! You see your fault—that’s the main thing. What’s done can’t be undone.”
“No, thank heaven!” thought the boy, feeling almost great.
How delicious is the irrevocable past—sometimes!
“Be more careful in future. Don’t let your boyish desire for follies carry you away.”
“I shall,” was his son’s mental rejoinder.