Kirk was too dispirited to take advantage of his good fortune. He had a sense of being there on parole, of being on his honour not to touch. So he sat in his chair, and looked at Bill; while Bill, crooning to himself, played decorously with bricks.
The truth had been a long time in coming home to Kirk, but it had reached him at last. Ever since his return he had clung to the belief that it was a genuine conviction of its merits that had led Ruth to support her aunt’s scheme for Bill’s welfare. He himself had always looked on the exaggerated precautions for the maintenance of the latter’s health as ridiculous and unnecessary; but he had acquiesced in them because he thought that Ruth sincerely believed them indispensable.
After all, he had not been there when Bill so nearly died, and he could understand that the shock of that episode might have distorted the judgment even of a woman so well balanced as Ruth. He was quite ready to be loyal to her in the matter, however distasteful it might be to him.
But now he saw the truth. A succession of tiny incidents had brought light to him. Ruth might or might not be to some extent genuine in her belief in the new system, but her chief motive for giving it her support was something quite different. He had tried not to admit to himself, but he could do so no longer. Ruth allowed Mrs. Porter to have her way because it suited her to do so; because, with Mrs. Porter on the premises, she had more leisure in which to amuse herself; because, to put it in a word, the child had begun to bore her.
Everything pointed to that. In the old days it had been her chief pleasure to be with the boy. Their walks in the park had been a daily ceremony with which nothing had been allowed to interfere. But now she always had some excuse for keeping away from him.
Her visits to the nursery, when she did go there, were brief and perfunctory. And the mischief of it was that she always presented such admirable reasons for abstaining from Bill’s society, when it was suggested to her that she should go to him, that it was impossible to bring her out into the open and settle the matter once and for all.
Patience was one of the virtues which set off the defects in Kirk’s character; but he did not feel very patient now as he sat and watched Bill playing on the floor.
“Well, Bill, old man, what do you make of it all?” he said at last.
The child looked up and fixed him with unwinking eyes. Kirk winced. They were so exactly Ruth’s eyes. That wide-open expression when somebody, speaking suddenly to her, interrupted a train of thought, was one of her hundred minor charms.
Bill had reproduced it to the life. He stared for a moment; then, as if there had been some telepathy between them, said: “I want mummy.”
Kirk laughed bitterly.
“You aren’t the only one. I want mummy, too.”
“Where is mummy?”
“I couldn’t tell you exactly. At a luncheon-party somewhere.”
“What’s luncheon-party?”
“A sort of entertainment where everybody eats too much and talks all the time without ever saying a thing that’s worth hearing.”
Bill considered this gravely.
“Why?”
“Because they like it, I suppose.”
“Why do they like it?”
“Goodness knows.”
“Does mummy like it?”
“I suppose so.”
“Does mummy eat too much?”
“She doesn’t. The others do.”
“Why?”
William Bannister’s thirst for knowledge was at this time perhaps his most marked characteristic. No encyclopaedia could have coped with it. Kirk was accustomed to do his best, cheerfully yielding up what little information on general subjects he happened to possess, but he was like Mrs. Partington sweeping back the Atlantic Ocean with her broom.
“Because they’ve been raised that way,” he replied to the last question. “Bill, old man, when you grow up, don’t you ever become one of these fellows who can’t walk two blocks without stopping three times to catch up with their breath. If you get like that mutt Dana Ferris you’ll break my heart. And you’re heading that way, poor kid.”
“What’s Ferris?”
“He’s a man I met at dinner the other night. When he was your age he was the richest child in America, and everybody fussed over him till he grew up into a wretched little creature with a black moustache and two chins. You ought to see him. He would make you laugh; and you don’t get much to laugh at nowadays. I guess it isn’t hygienic for a kid to laugh. Bill, honestly—what do you think of things? Don’t you ever want to hurl one of those sterilized bricks of yours at a certain lady? Or has she taken all the heart out of you by this time?”
This was beyond Bill, as Kirk’s monologues frequently were. He changed the subject.
“I wish I had a cat,” he said, by way of starting a new topic.
“Well, why haven’t you a cat? Why haven’t you a dozen cats if you want them?”
“I asked Aunty Lora could I have a cat, and she said: ‘Certainly not, cats are—cats are—’ ”
“Unhygienic?”
“What’s that?”
“It’s what your Aunt Lora might think a cat was. Or did she say pestilential?”
“I don’t amember.”
“But she wouldn’t let you have one?”
“Mamie said a cat might scratch me.”
“Well, you wouldn’t mind that?” said Kirk anxiously.
He had come to be almost morbidly on the lookout for evidence which might go to prove that this cotton-wool existence was stealing from the child the birthright of courage which was his
