“You don’t think, Jack, that clothes cost money.”
It was perfectly plain that no such thought ever entered Jack Murchison’s head. Children are serenely insensible to the worries of their elders, and, moreover, Master Jack had at the moment a grievance of his own.
“Bert Smith’s going to the pantomime,” and he pushed past his mother into the front room; swinging his books.
“Jack, be careful!”
“Why don’t we go to the pantomime? It’s a beastly shame!”
Catherine’s lips quivered almost imperceptibly. The blatant self-assertiveness of boyhood hurt her, as the thoughtless grumblings of a child must often hurt a mother.
“Put those books down, dear, and go and change your knickers.”
Jack obeyed, if swinging the books into a corner could be called obedience. Catherine restrained a gesture of impatience. Gwen, lying on the sofa, winced at the clatter as though morbidly sensitive to sounds.
“You are silly, Jack!”
“Shut up.”