Waverton's rapt mind. He
opened his eyes at the back which Mr. Waverton turned upon Harry and the
space between them. "Why, Geoffrey, have you been very stupid this
morning? And has schoolmaster stood you in the corner? Well done, Mr.
Boyce. I always told you, spare the rod and spoil the child. Shall I go
cut a birch for you?"
"I wonder you are not tired of that old jest, Charles," said Waverton
with a dignity which did not permit him to turn round.
"Never while it annoys you, child."
"Mr. Waverton is in labour with a poem," Harry explained.
"And it's indecent in me to be present at the ceremony? Well, Geoffrey,
postpone the birth." He sat himself down at his ease in Geoffrey's chair.
He was a compact man with only one arm. He looked ten years older than
Geoffrey and was, in fact, five. The campaign in Flanders which had
destroyed his right arm had set and hardened a frame and face by nature
solid enough. That face was long and angular, with a heavy chin and an
expression of sardonic complacency oddly increased by the jauntiness of
its shabby brown wig.
Waverton turned round wearily upon the unwelcome guest. "Well, Charles,
what is it?"
"It is nothing. My dear Geoffrey, if I had anything to do or anything to
say why should I come to you?"
"_Merci_, monsieur," Waverton smiled gracious indulgence.
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