He crossed the room and stood in front of the fire between his father and grandfather. He was tremendously conscious of the grim and dusty cactus plant that stood on a little table by the window.
“What have you been doing in the town?”
“I have been in The Bending Mule, father.”
“Why did you not come home before?”
There was no answer.
“You knew that you ought to come home?”
“Yes, father. I have a letter for you from Mr. Parlow. He said that I was to tell you that I have done my sums very badly this week and that I gave Willie Daffoll a bleeding nose on Wednesday—”
“Yes—have you any excuse for these things?”
"No, father.”
“Very well. You may go up to your room. I will come up to vou there.”
“Yes, father.”
He crossed the room very slowly, closed the door softly behind him, and then climbed the dark stairs to his attic.
II
He went trembling up to his room, and the match-box shook in his hand as he lit his candle. It was only the very worst beatings that happened in his bedroom, his father's gloomy and solemn study serving as a background on more unimportant occasions. He could only remember two other beatings in the attics, and they had both been very bad ones. He closed his door and then stood in the middle of the room; the little diamond-paned window was open and the glittering of the myriad stars flung a light over his room and shone on the little bracket of books above his bed (a Bible, an “Arabian Nights,” and tattered copies of “David Copperfield,” “ Vanity Fair,” “Peregrine Pickle,” “Tom Jones,” and “Harry Lorrequer”), on the little washing stand, a chest of drawers, a cane-bottomed chair, and the little bed. There were no pictures on the walls because of the sloping roof, but there were two china vases on the mantelpiece, and they were painted a very bright blue with yellow flowers on them.
