ready now to rage at any taunt, and began to eat in haughty silence. He
was still eating when his grandfather and Allan left the table, and then
he began to feel a little grateful that they had not noticed or asked
annoying questions, or tried to be funny or anything. Over a final dish of
plum preserves and an imposing segment of marble cake he relented so far
as to tell Clytie something of his adventures--especially since she had
said that the big hall-clock was very likely slow--that it must surely be
a lot later than a quarter past seven. The circumstances had combined to
produce a narrative not entirely perspicuous--the two clear points being
that They do everything in a whisper, and that Clytie ought to get rid of
Penny at once, since he could not be depended upon at great moments.

As to ever sleeping under a tree, Clytie discouraged him. She knew of
some Boys that once sat under a tree which was struck by lightning, all
being Killed save one, who had the rare good luck to be the son of a
Presbyterian clergyman. The little boy resolved next time to go beyond
the trees to sleep; perhaps if he went far enough he would come to the
other one of the Feet, and so have a safeguard against lightning, foreign
cows, and Those that walk with rustlings and whisper in the lonely places
at night.

The little boy fell asleep, half-persuaded again to virtue, because of its
superior comforts. The air about his head seemed full of ghostly "good
business hands," each with its accusing forefinger pointed at him for that
he had not learned to write one as Ralph Overton did.

Down the hall in his study the old man was musing backward to the
delicate, quiet girl with the old-fashioned aureole of curls, who would
now and then toss them with a little gesture eloquent of possibilities
for unrestraint when she felt the close-drawn rein of his authority. Again