Cathy threw Mike a look. "He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter. Niece and aunt regarded each other for a moment over their pockethandkerchiefs with watery but antagonistic eyes, each far too profoundly moved to see the absurdity of the position. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. His figure was uncommonly slim even for his age, which could not be more than thirteen; and the looseness of his garb made him appear thinner than he was in reality. He must fight the thought continually, day in and day out. Kneebone assured her that he did say so; and, as a further proof of his sincerity, squeezed her hand very warmly under the table.
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