"I can't," George said, sullenly. "I can't talk about it. You'll hear soon enough."
"I always said," his mother lamented, "that Georgie wasn't one to know his place up there."
"Depends," George muttered, "on what my place is. I've got to find that out. Look! You'll hear now."
A bald-headed figure in livery, one of the house servants, glided toward them through the shrubbery, over that vanished boundary line, with nervous haste. George squared his shoulders. The messenger, however, went straight to the older man.
"Mr. Planter's on his ear, and wants to see you right off in the library. What you been up to, young Morton?"
George resented the curiosity in the pallid, unintelligent eyes, the fellow's obvious pleasure in the presence of disaster. It would have appeased him to grasp those sloping shoulders, to force the grinning face from his sight. A queer question disturbed him. Had Sylvia felt something of the sort about him?
"Come on," the elder Morton said. "It's pretty hard at my age. You'll pay for this, George."
"Old Planter would never be that unfair," George encouraged him.
"Georgie! Georgie!" his mother said when the others were out of sight, "what have you been up to?"
He walked closer and placed his arm around her shoulders.