“He’s out playing in the yard,” Mrs. Bassett returned.  “I heard his voice just now, I think.”

“Everywhere I hear wonderful report of him,” said Mr. Kinosling.  “I may say that I understand boys, and I feel that he is a rare, a fine, a pure, a lofty spirit.  I say spirit, for spirit is the word I hear spoken of him.”

A chorus of enthusiastic approbation affirmed the accuracy of this proclamation, and Mrs. Bassett flushed with pleasure.  Georgie’s spiritual perfection was demonstrated by instances of it, related by the visitors; his piety was cited, and wonderful things he had said were quoted.

“Not all boys are pure, of fine spirit, of high mind,” said Mr. Kinosling, and continued with true feeling:  “You have a neighbour, dear Mrs. Bassett, whose household I indeed really feel it quite impossible to visit until such time when better, firmer, stronger handed, more determined discipline shall prevail.  I find Mr. and Mrs. Schofield and their daughter charming——­”

Three or four ladies said “Oh!” and spoke a name simultaneously.  It was as if they had said, “Oh, the bubonic plague!”

“Oh!  Penrod Schofield!”

“Georgie does not play with him,” said Mrs. Bassett quickly—­“that is, he avoids him as much as he can without hurting Penrod’s feelings.  Georgie is very sensitive to giving pain.  I suppose a mother should not tell these things, and I know people who talk about their own children are dreadful bores, but it was only last Thursday night that Georgie looked up in my face so sweetly, after he had said his prayers and his little cheeks flushed, as he said:  ’Mamma, I think it would be right for me to go more with Penrod.  I think it would make him a better boy.’”

A sibilance went about the room.  “Sweet!  How sweet!  The sweet little soul!  Ah, sweet!”

“And that very afternoon,” continued Mrs. Bassett, “he had come home in a dreadful state.  Penrod had thrown tar all over him.”

“Your son has a forgiving spirit!” said Mr. Kinosling with vehemence.  “A too forgiving spirit, perhaps.”  He set down his glass.  “No more, I thank you.  No more cake, I thank you.  Was it not Cardinal Newman who said——­”

He was interrupted by the sounds of an altercation just outside the closed blinds of the window nearest him.

“Let him pick his tree!” It was the voice of Samuel Williams.  “Didn’t we come over here to give him one of his own trees?  Give him a fair show, can’t you?”

“The little lads!” Mr. Kinosling smiled.  “They have their games, their outdoor sports, their pastimes.  The young muscles are toughening.  The sun will not harm them.  They grow; they expand; they learn.  They learn fair play, honour, courtesy, from one another, as pebbles grow round in the brook.  They learn more from themselves than from us.  They take shape, form, outline.  Let them.”

“Mr. Kinosling!” Another spinster—­undeterred by what had happened to Miss Beam—­leaned fair forward, her face shining and ardent.  “Mr. Kinosling, there’s a question I do wish to ask you.”