“It is trying to you, I am sure, to remain here, in your delicate health, among so many sad associations—”
“I’m quite well, thank you,” said the boy. “Tom, how does the football get on?”
“Oh,” said Tom, rather taken aback by the introduction of so congenial a theme from so unexpected a quarter, “I’ve not played very much lately. Jill and I had a little punt about yesterday; but we did it quite slowly, you know, and I had my crape on my arm.”
Jill flushed up guiltily. The housekeeper, who since Mrs Ingleton’s death had assumed the moral direction of the young lady, had expostulated with her in no mild terms on the iniquity of young ladies playing football, even of a funereal order, and she felt it very treacherous on the part of the faithless Tom to divulge her ill-doings now.
She felt reassured, however, when Mr Armstrong smiled grimly.
“Nobody could see,” said she; “and Tom did want a game so dreadfully.”
“We played Association,” said Tom. “Jill got two goals and I got fifty-six.”
“No, I got three,” said Jill.
“Oh, that first wasn’t a goal,” said Tom. “You see, she got past me with a neat bit of dribbling; but she ran, and the rule was only to walk, you know, because of being in mourning.”
“I really didn’t run, I only walked very fast,” said Jill.