“You have your boy, Gogg,” he said, kindly.
“Yes, I have the boy, sir, and he’s a stocky lad, though a bit fond of helping himself to other folk’s fruit. I am glad to see your honor looking so fit and hearty.”
“Thank you, Gogg, I am nearly myself again.”
“And I hope, sir, you will be soon saying the same of your good lady—Miss Hardacre.”
Jeffray’s face hardened at the innkeeper’s words; the frank, beaming look died out of the eyes, the angles of the sensitive mouth sank instantly. Even this fat fool’s suavity seemed to summon before his eyes all those grim and staring sentimentalities that hemmed him in like a crowd of attorneys. George Gogg’s round person vanished with its white-stockinged legs and dirty apron, and in its place Jeffray beheld the implacable Sir Peter and Mr. Lot’s red and arrogant face. A small crowd of children had gathered about the chaise, their natural impertinence suppressed by a hoped for largesse of pence. Jeffray threw some coppers among them as Wilson flapped the reins on Dame Meg’s back. The brats scrambled and fought for the money, one urchin, a head taller than the rest, concluding the scramble by forcing the pennies from the fists of the feebler competitors. Richard’s munificence had wrought more woe than pleasure. There was much blubbering and squealing, much running together of angry mothers, ready to squabble over their children’s feuds.
There was an amused glint in Wilson’s eyes as he caught a glimpse of Jeffray’s melancholy face.
“See, sir,” he said, “the evils of too promiscuous a generosity. There is about as much evil caused in this world by giving as by grinding. As to that pretty superstition with regard to the beautiful innocence of childhood, it is about as outrageous a myth as ever rose out of the affectations of maternity. Children are generally worse than animals, sir, since they inherit all the devilish and human cunning of their ancestors.”
Jeffray lay back in the chaise as though he were weary.
“What it means to be an idealist!” he said.
“Live on a desert island and you may succeed,” quoth the painter, with a smile.