"Well," said the rector, "left anything?"
"No, sir," said the boy, his young figure stiffening, his head up.
"I wasn't honest, sir." And again with his old half-lost formal way,
"I--I--you might have thought--I wasn't--quite honourable. I mean--I'll
never be able to forgive that blackguard until I can--can get even with
him. You see, sir?"
"Yes, I see," said Rivers, who did not see, or know for a moment what
to say. "Well, think it over, John. He is more a rough cub than a
blackguard. Think it over."
"Yes, sir," and John walked away.
The rector looked after the boy thinking--he's the Squire all over, with
more imagination, a gentleman to the core. But how wonderfully changed,
and in only eight months.
John was now, this July, allowed to ride with Leila when his uncle was
otherwise occupied. He had been mounted on a safe old horse and was not
spared advice from Leila, who enjoyed a little the position of mistress
of equestrianism. She was slyly conscious of her comrade's mildly
resentful state of mind.
"Don't pull on him so hard, John. The great thing is to get intimate with
a horse's mouth. He's pretty rough, but if you wouldn't keep so stiff,
you wouldn't feel it."
John began to be a little impatient. "Let us talk of something else than
horses.
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