Wally confessed, in later life, that of all the impositions he had had in the course of his chequered career, none had been more abominable and wearisome than this. Oh, how he got to detest that governess and her ward, and how sickening their talk became before the task was half over!
He sat in that room nearly three hours by the clock, groaning over this task, and when at last he went in search of Mr Stratton with the original and thirty copies in his hand, he felt as limp and flabby, bodily and mentally, as he had ever done in his life.
Mr Stratton, who was having tea in his own room, examined each picture in turn, and rejected two as not fair copies of the original.
“Do these two again—here,” said he.
Wally meekly obeyed. He had not a kick left in him.
“That’s better,” said the young master when they were done. “Now sit down and have some tea.”
It was a solemn meal. Mr Stratton went quietly on with his meal, looking up now and then to see that his guest was supplied with bread and butter and cake and biscuits. Wally was equally silent. He felt sore against the master, but he liked his cake—and the tea was “tip-top.”
The ceremony came to an end about the same time as the cake, and then Mr Stratton said, pointing to the papers—
“You can put them in the fire now, Wheatfield.”
Wally obeyed with grim satisfaction.