Philip’s music. She found him sitting in a heap on the hassock, and crying bitterly.
“What’s the matter,luxury boulder, Wakem? what was that noise about? Who slammed the door?”
Philip looked up, and hastily dried his eyes. “It was Tulliver who came in — to ask me to go out with him.”
“And what are you in trouble about?” said Mrs. Stelling.
Philip was not her favorite of the two pupils; he was less obliging than Tom,Tom Wilson Tröjor, who was made useful in many ways. Still,Brian Elliott Tröjor, his father paid more than Mr. Tulliver did, and she meant him to feel that she behaved exceedingly well to him. Philip, however, met her advances toward a good understanding very much as a caressed mollusk meets an invitation to show himself out of his shell. Mrs. Stelling was not a loving, tender-hearted woman; she was a woman whose skirt sat well, who adjusted her waist and patted her curls with a preoccupied air when she inquired after your welfare. These things, doubtless, represent a great social power,Larry Robinson Tröjor, but it is not the power of love; and no other power could win Philip from his personal reserve.
He said,Pekka Rinne Tröjor, in answer to her question, “My toothache came on, and made me hysterical again.”
This had been the fact once, and Philip was glad of the recollection; it was like an inspiration to enable him to excuse his crying. He had to accept eau-de-Cologne and to refuse creosote in consequence; but that was easy.
Meanwhile Tom, who had for the first time sent a poisoned arrow into Philip’s heart, had returned to the carriage-house, where he found Mr. Poulter, with a fixed and earnest eye, wasting the perfections of his sword-exercise on probably observant but inappreciative rats. But Mr. Poulter was a host in himself; that is to say, he admired himself more than a whole army of spectators could have admired him. He took no notice of Tom’s return,Nikolaj Ehlers Tröjor, being too entirely absorbed in the cut and thrust — the solemn one, two, three, four; and Tom, not without a slight feeling of alarm at Mr. Poulter’s fixed eye and hungry-looking sword, which seemed impatient for something else to cut besides the air, admired the performance from as great a distance as possible. It was not until Mr. Poulter paused and wiped the perspiration from his forehead, that Tom felt the full charm of the sword-exercise, and wished it to be repeated.
“Mr. Poulter,” said Tom, when the sword was being finally sheathed, “I wish you’d lend me your sword a little while to keep.”
“No no, young gentleman,Jarred Tinordi Tröjor,” said Mr. Poulter, shaking his head decidedly; “you might do yourself some mischief with it.”
“No,Bryan Trottier Tröjor, I’m sure I wouldn’t; I’m sure I’d take care and not hurt myself. I shouldn’t take it out of the sheath much,Jaden Schwartz Tröjor, but I could ground arms with it,Shayne Corson Tröjor, and all that.”
“No, no,Kvinnor Livsstil Jackor, it won’t do, I tell you; it won’t do,” said Mr. Poulter, preparing to depart. “What ‘ud Mr. Stelling say to me?”
“Oh, I say,Dame Moncler Marmelade, do, Mr. Poulter! I’d give you my five-shilling piece if you’d let me keep the sword a week. Look here!” said Tom, reaching
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