hall?"
"It was a very dirty hall. I was punished for making pictures on the wall."
"Oh," said the boy, soberly.
After a moment the boy jumped up:
"I'm hungry. I believe luncheon is nearly ready. Come on, Steve!"
The child could scarcely speak from pride and happiness when the boy condescended to take her hand and lead her out of that enchanted place into the magic deeps below.
At nine-thirty that evening Stephanie made the curtsey which had been taught her, to Cleland Senior, and was about to repeat the process to Cleland Junior, when the latter laughed and held out his hand.
"Good night, Steve," he said reassuringly. "You've got to be a regular girl with me."
She took his hand, held it, drew closer. To his consternation, he realized that she was expecting to kiss him, and he hastily wrung her hand and sat down.
The child's face flushed: she turned to Cleland Senior for the kiss to which he had accustomed her. Her lips were quivering, and the older man understood.
"Good night, darling," he said, drawing her close into his arms, and whispered in her ear gaily: "You've scared him, Steve. He's only a boy, you know."
Her head, buried against his shoulder, concealed the starting tears.
"You've scared him," repeated Cleland Senior. "All boys are shy about girls."
Suddenly it struck her as funny; she smiled; the tears dried in her eyes. She twisted around, and, placing her lips against the elder man's ear, she whispered:
"I'm afraid of him, but I do like him!"
"He likes you, but he's a little afraid of you yet."
That appealed to her once more as exquisitely funny. She giggled, snuggled closer, observed by Jim with embarrassment and boredom. But he was too polite to betray it.
Stephanie, with one arm around Cleland's neck, squeezed herself tightly against him and recounted in a breathless whisper her impressions of his only son:
"I do like him so much, Dad! He talked to me upstairs about his school and all the boys there. He was very kind to me. Do you think I'm too little for him to like me? I'm growing rather fast, you know. I'd do anything for him, anything. I wish you'd tell him that. Will you?"
"Yes, I will, dear. Now, run upstairs to Janet."
"Shall I say good night to Jim again?"
"If you like. But don't kiss him, or you'll scare him."
They both had a confidential and silent fit of laughter over this; then the child slid from his knees, dropped a hasty, confused curtsey in Jim's direction, turned and scampered upstairs. And a gale of laughter came floating out of the nursery, silenced as Janet shut the door.
The subdued glow of a lamp fell over father and son; undulating strata of smoke drifted between them from the elder man's cigar.
"Well, Jim?"
"Yes, Father."
"Do you like her?"
"She's a – funny girl… Yes, she's a rather nice little kid."
"We'll stand by her, won't we, Jim?"
"Yes, sir."
"Make up to her the lost days – the cruellest injustice that can be inflicted – the loss of a happy childhood."
"Yes, sir."
"All right, old chap. Now, tell me all about yourself and what has happened since you wrote."
"I had a fight."
"With whom, Jim?"
"With Oswald Grismer, of the first form."
"What did he do to you?" inquired his father.
"He said something – about a girl."
"What girl?"
"I don't know her."
"Go on."
"Nothing… Except I told him what I thought of him."
"For what? For speaking disrespectfully about a girl you never met?"
"Yes, sir."
"Oh. Go on."
"Nothing more, sir… Except that we mixed it."
"I see. Did you – hold your own?"
"They said – I think I did, sir."
"Grismer is – your age? Younger? Older?"
"Yes, sir, older."
"How do you and he weigh in?"
"He's – I believe – somewhat heavier."
"First form boy. Naturally. Well, did you shake hands?"
"No, sir."
"That's bad, Jim."
"I know it. I – somehow – couldn't."
"Do it next term. No use to fight unless to settle things."
The boy remained silent, and his father did not press the matter.
"What shall we do to-morrow, Jim?" inquired Cleland Senior, after a long pause.
"Do you mean just you and me, Father?"
"Oh, yes. Steve will be busy with her lessons. And, in the evening, nine-thirty is her bedtime."
The boy said, with a sigh of unconscious relief:
"I need a lot of things. We'll go to the shops first. Then we'll lunch together, then we can take in a movie, then we'll dine all by ourselves, and then go to the theatre. What do you say, Father?"
"Fine!" said his father, with the happy thrill which comes to fathers whose growing sons still prefer their company to the company of anybody else.
CHAPTER VI
To Cleland Senior it seemed as though Jim's Easter vacation ended before it had fairly begun; so swiftly sped the blessed days together.
Already the morning of his son's departure for school had dawned, and he realized it with the same mental sinking, the same secret dismay and painful incredulity which he always experienced when the dreaded moment for parting actually arrived.
As usual, he prepared to accompany his son to the railway station. It happened not to occur to him that Stephanie might desire to go.
At breakfast, his son sat opposite as usual, Stephanie on his right, very quiet, and keeping her grey eyes on her plate so persistently that the father finally noticed her subdued demeanour, and kept an eye on her until in her momentarily lifted face he detected the sensitive, forced smile of a child close to tears.
All the resolute composure she could summon did not conceal from him the tragedy of a child who is about to lose its hero and who feels itself left out – excluded, as it were, from the last sad rites.
He was touched, conscience stricken, and yet almost inclined to smile. He said casually, as they rose from the table:
"Steve, dear, tell Janet to make you ready at once, if you are going to see Jim off."
"Am —I– going!" faltered the child, flushing and tremulous with surprise and happiness.
"Why, of course. Run quickly to Janet, now." And, to his son, when the eager little flying feet had sped out of sight and hearing: "Steve felt left out, Jim. Do you understand, dear?"
"Y-yes, Father."
"Also, she is inclined to take your departure very seriously. You do understand, don't you, my dear son?"
The boy said that he did, vaguely disappointed that he was not to have the last moments alone with his father.
So they all went down town together in the car, and there were other boys there with parents; and some recognitions among the other people; desultory, perfunctory conversations, cohesion among the school boys welcoming one another with ardour and strenuous cordiality after only ten days' separation.
Chiltern