“Yes, father.”
“Then what have you to say? What explanation have you to offer for your conduct? You have behaved like a buffoon, sir—d’you hear me?—like a buffoon!”
“Yes, father.”
“What the deuce do you mean by ‘yes,’ sir?”
Eustace considered, while Mr. Lane puffed in the approved paternal fashion What did he mean? A sudden thought struck him. He became confidential. With an earnest gaze, he said:
“I couldn’t help doing what I did. I want to be like the other fellows, but somehow I can’t. Something inside of me won’t let me just go on as they do. I don’t know why it is, but I feel as if I must do original things—things other people never do; it—it seems in me.”
Mr. Lane regarded him suspiciously, but Eustace had clear eyes, and knew, at least, how to look innocent.
“We shall have to knock it out of you,” blustered the father.
“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.