“If the poor boy is tired,” says Mrs Rimbolt, “we must excuse him this once.”
So Mr Rimbolt, as has happened more than once before, gives in, and Percy does as he pleases.
He does full justice to his dinner, and takes no part in the conversation, which is chiefly carried on by Mr Rimbolt, sometimes with his wife, sometimes with Raby. At length, however, the first cravings of appetite being subdued, he shows a readiness to put in his oar.
“How goes the invisible paint, Percy?” asks his father, with a twinkle in his eye.
“Used up,” replies the boy solemnly. “I’m sure it would answer. I painted Hodge with it, and could scarcely see him at all from a distance.”
“I believe you paint yourself,” says Raby, laughing, “and that’s why the men can’t find you.”
Percy is pleased at this, and takes it as a recognition of his genius. He has great faith in his own discovery, and it is everything to him to find some one else believing in it too.
“If you like to come to the river to-morrow, I’ll show you something,” says he condescendingly. “It licks the paint into fits!”
“Raby will be busy in the village to-morrow,” says her aunt. “What is it you are doing at the river?”
“Oh, ah!” solemnly responds the son, whose year at a public-school has not taught him the art of speaking respectfully to his parents; “wouldn’t you like to know?”