Violet was a friendly, warm-hearted little thing. She saw that Mr. Blatherwick had had good news; and, as the bearer of the letters which had contained it, she felt almost responsible. She smiled kindly up at Mr. Blatherwick.
Mr. Blatherwick’s dreamy hazel eye rested pensively upon her. The major portion of his mind was far away in the future, dealing with visions of a school grown to colossal proportions, and patronized by millionaires. The section of it which still worked in the present was just large enough to enable him to understand that he felt kindly, and even almost grateful, to Violet. Unfortunately it was too small to make him see how wrong it was to kiss her in a vague, fatherly way across the coffee tray just as James Datchet walked into the room.
James paused. Mr. Blatherwick coughed Violet, absolutely unmoved, supplied James with coffee, and bustled out of the room.
She left behind her a somewhat massive silence.
Mr. Blatherwick coughed again.
“It looks like rain,” said James, carelessly.
“Ah?” said Mr. Blatherwick.
“Very like rain,” said James.
“Indeed!” said Mr. Blatherwick.
A pause.
“Pity if it rains,” said James.
“True,” said Mr. Blatherwick.
Another pause.
“Er—Datchett,” said Mr. Blatherwick.
“Yes,” said James.
“I—er—feel that perhaps—”
James waited attentively.
“Have you sugar?”
“Plenty, thanks,” said James.
“I shall be sorry if it rains,” said Mr. Blatherwick.
Conversation languished.
James laid his cup down.
“I have some writing to do,” he said. “I think I’ll be going upstairs now.”
“Er—just so,” said Mr. Blatherwick, with relief. “Just so. An excellent idea.”
“Er—Datchett,” said Mr. Blatherwick next day, after breakfast.