His mother was
a trifle alarmedly struck by the feeling that he was talking like
a young man in love who cannot keep his tongue still, though in
his case even the youngest manhood was years away, and he made no
effort to conceal his sentiments which a young man would certainly
have striven to do.
"She's got such a pretty little face and such a pretty mouth and
cheeks," he touched a Jacqueminot rose in a vase. "They are the
colour of that. Today a robin came with the sparrows and hopped
about near us. We laughed and laughed because her eyes are like
the robin's, and she is called Robin. I wish you would come into
the Gardens and see her, mother. She likes everything I do."
"I must come, dear," she answered.
"Nanny thinks she is lovely," he announced. "She says I am in love
with her. Am I, mother?"
"You are too young to be in love," she said. "And even when you
are older you must not fall in love with people you know nothing
about."
It was an unconscious bit of Scotch cautiousness which she at once
realized was absurd and quite out of place. But--!
She realized it because he stood up and squared his shoulders in
an odd young-mannish way. He had not flushed even faintly before
and now a touch of colour crept under his fair skin.
"But I DO love her," he said. "I DO. I can't stop." And though he
was quite simple and obviously little boy-like, she actually felt
frightened for a moment.
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