Mr. Scarlett's father he offended
mortally by expressing, in front of him, dislike for hair that grew in
bushy profusion out of that old gentleman's ears.
"But you could cut it off," he argued, in a voice thick with surprised
disgust. His grandfather, who was a baronet, and very wealthy, predicted
a dismal career for his grandchild.
All the family realised quite definitely that nothing could be done with
John. It was fortunate, indeed, that he was, on the whole, of a happy
and friendly disposition. He liked the world and things that he found in
it. He liked games, and food, and adventure--he liked quite tolerably
his family--he liked immensely the prospect of going to school.
There were other things--strange, uncertain things--that lay like the
dim, uncertain pattern of some tapestry in the back of his mind. He gave
_them_, as the months passed, less and less heed. Only sometimes when he
was asleep....
Meanwhile, his mother, with the heroism worthy of Boadicea, that great
and savage warrior, kept his impulses of devotion, of sacrifice, of
adoration, in her heart. John had no need of them; very long ago,
Reginald Scarlett, then no K.
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