“Your father?” asked Clytie, taken aback, and diverging into the side track of her astonishment. “I never knew you had—I mean, I thought you did not know anything at all about him. You used not to tell me the truth, then, Jack.”
“Oh! but I did not know then!” he cried eagerly. “It was only when I come here at Christmas, and you was ill, so I couldn't tell you. He was a soldier, my father, an orficer. And I would like to be an orficer too.”
“Really, Jack, this is very interesting,” said Clytie. “Aren't you pleased to have a father you can be proud of? Was he a very brave man?”
“He had a sword,” said Jack proudly, as if that was proof positive of valour.
“Come and sit down in your old place on the hearthrug and tell me all about him.”
The boy did as he was bidden, sinking somewhat shyly at first on to the great bearskin at Clytie's feet. But after a while he huddled himself up in his old posture.
“Mother didn't tell me much,” he said in answer to a question of Clytie's. “I was looking in a chest of drawers of mother's, and I see a photograph—an orficer—all over strings and buttons and a sword and great big moustaches. And I come to mother and says: 'Who's this?' and she says: 'That's your father.' And then she snatched it out of my hand and hit me a clout on the head for going to her drawer. She wouldn't tell me no mere; but I know he was an orficer because he's got a star on his collar. I think I knows orficers when I sees them,” he added, with the ci-devant street urchin's knowledge of life. “And I go and look at him now when mother isn't by.”
“But you shouldn't go to your mother's private drawers,” said Clytie by way of moral precept.
“I've got as much right to look at my father as she has,” replied Jack in an injured tone, whereat Clytie laughed a little.
“You are an odd youth. I wish I could make you an officer right away. But I am afraid I can't.”