There was no struggle in
his mind, because there did not seem to be any choice. It wasn't that
little Cosgrave counted more--he hardly counted at all in that moment.
But she, if she knew he existed, would expect him to do the right, the
fine thing. Francey would have expected it. And she was only a mere
girl. How much more this noble, wonderful woman? It was better than
clapping. Somewhere at the back of his mind was the idea that he offered
her a more gallant tribute, and that one day she would know that he had
stuck up for Cosgrave for her sake, and, remote and godlike though she
was, be just a little pleased. The comfort of it was a faint warm light
showing through his darkness. It was all he had. As he dug those last,
most precious shillings out of the chaos of his pockets he felt himself go
sick and faint, just as he had done when, in a desperate fight, a boy
bigger than himself had kicked his shin.
"There--you can put them back, can't you? He'll never know----"
Rufus stopped crying instantly, after the miraculous fashion of his years.
He cut an elfish caper. He rubbed himself against his saviour like some
small grateful animal.
"I say, you are a brick. I knew you'd help somehow. Won't he be sold,
though? I'll just love to see his beastly face! What luck--not having a
father, like you. I say, though, is that all you've got? You won't be
able to go to the show now--and you're so keen, aren't you?"
"It doesn't matter," Robert answered carelessly.
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