“No,” said Jack; “but I wish she’d come with us,” and he turned to his stepmother. “Won’t you change your mind?”
“I really don’t feel up to it, Jack. I’m tired—I’ve had a headache since the day before yesterday.”
“It might drive the headache away,” said Jack, eagerly. “They say it’s a tip-top piece.”
His stepmother and his tutor both smiled as they looked at his bright and animated face. Lady Beckford’s smile was simply affectionate; Mr. Ridsdale’s was indulgent and patronising.
“A rousing melodrama, Jack! All noise and stamping.”
“Yes,” cried Jack, enthusiastically. “Murder and sudden death—just what I like.”
“But not,” said Mr. Ridsdale, “exactly indicated as a cure for a headache.”
“Well, if I can’t persuade you——” and Jack turned to Yates, the butler. “Has George changed his things?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then I’ll be off.” Jack pushed his plate away with a gesture that elegant Mr. Ridsdale could not approve of. It was too childish for a boy of fourteen—a little more polish required, in spite of so much polishing. “Good night,” and Jack kissed Lady Beckford. “I shan’t say good night to you, Mr. Ridsdale, because you won’t have turned in before I get back, will you?”