"Ah," he said, "tell him I've found some, and ask him to come and see whether they happen to be his. They've done me a very good turn, but I shouldn't mind being relieved of them now."
"'E was one of the swanks an' no mistake," said Eglantine to William. "Oi'd no patience wiv 'im an' 'is wye of talkin'. Oi can plye the toff as well as anyone when oi loikes--oi did wiv 'im, din't oi? But oi despises 'em."
William was looking anxiously down the road where the tall man was taking them.
"To the kind lady's who invited us to tea," said the tall man, overhearing him.
William walked along in silence. Eglantine began to expatiate again.
"Look at all them 'ouses," she said, with a contemptuous glance at the houses between which they were passing. "Wot they want wiv such big 'ouses? Swank! That's all it is. Swank! Livin' in big 'ouses an' talkin' so soft. Oi've no patience wiv 'em. Oi wouldn't be one of 'em--not fer nuffin'."
But William was growing more and more uneasy.
"What we're goin' along here for?" he muttered truculently.
The tall man turned in at a gate. William moistened his lips.
"He's making a _mistake_," he murmured, pulling his check cap still farther over his eyes.
At the door stood Mrs. Brown and Ethel. Their glance fell first on Eglantine.
"What a dreadful child," whispered Mrs. Brown.
Next it fell on all that could be seen of Eglantine's companion.
"What an appalling cap!" whispered Ethel.
"Here we are," said the tall man, with a note of relief in his voice. "Here we are ... we've had a delightful time--er--quite a delightful time--er--on the whole--er--just a little misunderstanding at one point--a--temporary separation, but all's well that ends well. It's too kind of you. This is--er--Eglantine, and--er--this little boy is an orphan, poor little chap!"
Mrs. Brown laid her hand tenderly on the tweed cap. "Poor little boy," she began. "Poor little----" then she met the eyes beneath the tweed cap. "_William!_" she said sharply, "take off that horrible cap and go and wash your face."
William, clean and brushed and frowning, sat and glared across the table at his late friends. He felt himself disgraced for ever. He was a pariah, outside the pale, one of the "swanks" who lived in big houses and talked soft. His mother's and Ethel's intonation and accent seemed at that moment a public humiliation to him. He did not dare to meet Eglantine's eyes. Fiercely he munched a currant bun. Into his unoccupied hand stole a small grimy one.