Though a devoted, she was not a blind mother,
and she was disagreeably aware that her little son never "gave himself
away." She did not wish to start him on a long romancing explanation
which would embody--if one were to put it in bald English--a lie. So she
said nothing.
They were close to the door of the house when he again took her aback by
suddenly saying:--"I don't think Mrs. Crofton can be a very nice sort of
lady, Mum."
(Then he had seen Mrs. Crofton, and _she_ had told him.)
"Why not, Timmy?"
"I have a sort of feeling that she's horrid."
"Nonsense! If only for your godfather's sake, we must all try and like
her. Besides, my boy, she's in great trouble. Her husband only died two
or three months ago."
"Some people aren't sorry when their husbands die," remarked Timmy.
She pretended not to hear. But as they walked through into the hall
she heard him say as if to himself: "Some people are glad. Mrs. George
Pott"--the woman who kept the local beer-shop--"danced when _her_ husband
died."
"I wish, Timmy," said his mother sharply, "that you would not listen to,
or repeat low village gossip."
"Not even if it's true, Mum?"
"No, not even if it's true.
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