The Restless Sex. Chambers Robert William

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      The subdued glow of a lamp fell over father and son; undulating strata of smoke drifted between them from the elder man's cigar.

      "Well, Jim?"

      "Yes, Father."

      "Do you like her?"

      "She's a – funny girl… Yes, she's a rather nice little kid."

      "We'll stand by her, won't we, Jim?"

      "Yes, sir."

      "Make up to her the lost days – the cruellest injustice that can be inflicted – the loss of a happy childhood."

      "Yes, sir."

      "All right, old chap. Now, tell me all about yourself and what has happened since you wrote."

      "I had a fight."

      "With whom, Jim?"

      "With Oswald Grismer, of the first form."

      "What did he do to you?" inquired his father.

      "He said something – about a girl."

      "What girl?"

      "I don't know her."

      "Go on."

      "Nothing… Except I told him what I thought of him."

      "For what? For speaking disrespectfully about a girl you never met?"

      "Yes, sir."

      "Oh. Go on."

      "Nothing more, sir… Except that we mixed it."

      "I see. Did you – hold your own?"

      "They said – I think I did, sir."

      "Grismer is – your age? Younger? Older?"

      "Yes, sir, older."

      "How do you and he weigh in?"

      "He's – I believe – somewhat heavier."

      "First form boy. Naturally. Well, did you shake hands?"

      "No, sir."

      "That's bad, Jim."

      "I know it. I – somehow – couldn't."

      "Do it next term. No use to fight unless to settle things."

      The boy remained silent, and his father did not press the matter.

      "What shall we do to-morrow, Jim?" inquired Cleland Senior, after a long pause.

      "Do you mean just you and me, Father?"

      "Oh, yes. Steve will be busy with her lessons. And, in the evening, nine-thirty is her bedtime."

      The boy said, with a sigh of unconscious relief:

      "I need a lot of things. We'll go to the shops first. Then we'll lunch together, then we can take in a movie, then we'll dine all by ourselves, and then go to the theatre. What do you say, Father?"

      "Fine!" said his father, with the happy thrill which comes to fathers whose growing sons still prefer their company to the company of anybody else.

      CHAPTER VI

      To Cleland Senior it seemed as though Jim's Easter vacation ended before it had fairly begun; so swiftly sped the blessed days together.

      Already the morning of his son's departure for school had dawned, and he realized it with the same mental sinking, the same secret dismay and painful incredulity which he always experienced when the dreaded moment for parting actually arrived.

      As usual, he prepared to accompany his son to the railway station. It happened not to occur to him that Stephanie might desire to go.

      At breakfast, his son sat opposite as usual, Stephanie on his right, very quiet, and keeping her grey eyes on her plate so persistently that the father finally noticed her subdued demeanour, and kept an eye on her until in her momentarily lifted face he detected the sensitive, forced smile of a child close to tears.

      All the resolute composure she could summon did not conceal from him the tragedy of a child who is about to lose its hero and who feels itself left out – excluded, as it were, from the last sad rites.

      He was touched, conscience stricken, and yet almost inclined to smile. He said casually, as they rose from the table:

      "Steve, dear, tell Janet to make you ready at once, if you are going to see Jim off."

      "Am —I– going!" faltered the child, flushing and tremulous with surprise and happiness.

      "Why, of course. Run quickly to Janet, now." And, to his son, when the eager little flying feet had sped out of sight and hearing: "Steve felt left out, Jim. Do you understand, dear?"

      "Y-yes, Father."

      "Also, she is inclined to take your departure very seriously. You do understand, don't you, my dear son?"

      The boy said that he did, vaguely disappointed that he was not to have the last moments alone with his father.

      So they all went down town together in the car, and there were other boys there with parents; and some recognitions among the other people; desultory, perfunctory conversations, cohesion among the school boys welcoming one another with ardour and strenuous cordiality after only ten days' separation.

      Chiltern Grismer, father of Oswald, came over and spoke to Cleland Senior:

      "Our respective sons, it appears, so far forgot their Christian principles as to indulge in a personal encounter in school," he said in a pained voice. "Hadn't they better shake hands, Cleland?"

      "Certainly," replied John Cleland. "If a fight doesn't clean off the slate, there's something very wrong somewhere … Jim?"

      Cleland Junior left the group of gossiping boys; young Grismer, also, at his father's summons, came sauntering nonchalantly over from another group.

      "Make it up with young Cleland!" said Chiltern Grismer, tersely. "Mr. Cleland and I are friends of many years. Let there be no dissension between our sons."

      "Offer your hand, Jim," added Cleland Senior. "A punch in the nose settles a multitude of sins; doesn't it, Grismer?"

      The ceremony was effected reluctantly, and in anything but a cordial manner. Stephanie, looking on, perplexed, caught young Grismer's amber-coloured eyes fixed on her; saw the tall, sandy-haired boy turn to look at her as he moved away to rejoin his particular group; saw the colour rising in his mischievous face when she surprised him peeping at her again over another boy's shoulder.

      Several times, before the train left, the little girl became conscious that this overgrown, sandy-haired boy was watching her, sometimes with frankly flattering admiration, sometimes furtively, as though in sly curiosity.

      "Who is that kid?" she distinctly heard him say to another boy. She calmly turned her back.

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