"I don't know. I can't say. Some day." Challis has become reserved suddenly. "Give me the little Japanese ash-pan, and find yourself a chair. A strong one, I should recommend." For Bob is at that pleasant growing age that has relapses into babyhood, if not checked by a hint now and then. He accepts the hint this time, but declines the chair, preferring to lean over the back of his father's, and pull his hair.
"The mater hates her. I don't." Now, if this had been said immediately, it would have seemed much slighter conversation, easy to pass by. Coming after a good pause of hairpulling, it implied a confidence in the speaker's mind that his hearer's had been dwelling, during that pause, on the person he didn't hate and his mother did.
"It's no concern of any young monkey's who his mother hates or doesn't hate."
"Well!—it's true. And I say it's a beastly shame. After all, it wasn't her fault that it thawed."
"You unblushing young egotist! Is the whole world to be nothing but skates—skates—skates? Whose fault wasn't it? Your mother's?"
"No fear! The mater wanted me to chuck it up, and not skate at all. Rather!" This youth's language depends for expression on a tone of overstrained contempt for experience outside his own. But the desert of his egotism has oases. He reaches one now, and says in quite a natural voice: "I say, pap!"
"Go on, human creature!"
"Shall I tell you what me and Cat...."
"What who?" This is accompanied by a pantomimic threat of extermination.
"Well! Cat and I, then ... what we call her, when we're alone?"