'It is just like her,' said one of them. 'I could believe anything of Mrs. Brownlow.'
'You must not believe this,' said Guy, gently. 'I repeated incorrectly what had better have been forgotten, and I must beg my foolish exaggeration to go no further.'
Charles became sullenly silent; Guy stood thoughtful; and Laura and Amabel could not easily sustain the conversation till the visitors took their leave.
'Here's a pother!' grumbled Charles, as soon as they were gone.
'I beg your pardon for spoiling your story,' said Guy; but it was my fault, so I was obliged to interfere.'
'Bosh!' said Charles. 'Who cares whether she smoked one or twenty? She is Mrs. Brownlow still.'
The point is, what was truth?' said Laura.
'Straining at gnats,' said Charles.
'Little wings?' said Guy, glancing at Amabel.
'Have it your won way,' said Charles, throwing his head back; 'they must be little souls, indeed that stick at such trash.'
Guy's brows were contracted with vexation, but Laura looked up very prettily, saying-'Never mind him. We must all honour you for doing such an unpleasant thing.'
'You will recommend him favourably to Philip,' growled Charles.
There was no reply, and presently Guy asked whether he would go up to dress? Having no other way of showing his displeasure, he refused, and remained nursing his ill-humour, till he forgot how slight the offence had been, and worked himself into a sort of insane desire--half mischievous, half revengeful--to be as provoking as he could in his turn.
Seldom had he been more contrary, as his old nurse was wont to call it. No one could please him, and Guy was not allowed to do anything for him. Whatever he said was intended to rub on some sore place in Guy's mind. His mother and Laura's signs made him worse, for he had the pleasure of teasing them, also; but Guy endured it all with perfect temper, and he grew more cross at his failure; yet, from force of habit, at bed-time, he found himself on the stairs with Guy's arm supporting him.
'Good night,' said Charles; 'I tried hard to poke up the lion to-night, but I see it won't do.'
This plea of trying experiments was neither absolutely true nor false; but it restored Charles to himself, by saving a confession that he had been out of temper, and enabling him to treat with him wonted indifference the expostulations of father, mother, and Laura.
Now that the idea of 'poking up the lion' had once occurred, it became his great occupation to attempt it. He wanted to see some evidence of the fiery temper, and it was a new sport to try to rouse it; one, too, which had the greater relish, as it kept the rest of the family on thorns.