Although Walter and Paul were more inseparable than ever, there was a new reserve in Paul's manner. In the bleak six months during which his pride had kept him aloof, he had strengthened his fortress. Now he peered over the wall and would not be enticed outside by anyone who had once succeeded in wounding him.
This economy of emotion, had he known it, lent a touch of the artistic to his personality, a touch which Walter had sufficient taste to appreciate. When Walter accused John Ashmill of being stupid, he had in mind John's lack of delicacy. The new Paul, more subtly sensitive than ever, faintly derisive at times, challenging, less gullible, obviously trying to discipline his own excess of gentleness, appealed to Walter's cajoling nature.
If Paul had spent the interval in learning arts of repression, Walter had not wasted his time. He had been acquiring stores of knowledge which his imagination had freely dramatized and which he was eager to display before an audience capable of appreciating fine shades. John Ashmill, among others, had put him on the track of discoveries which placed the universe in a new light. Hence at twelve Walter was in possession of all the information—and how much more!—that "a young boy ought to know."
He had absorbed these facts gladly, but to Paul the revelation came with an unutterable sense of horror. For
