“No, Mother.”

“I didn’t know that she and this Weevil boy were such old friends.”

Wolf swung his stick. Something about the inflexible determination of his mother’s profile, especially of her clear-cut chin, at that moment, roused an obscure feeling of rebellion in him.

“Why the devil not?” he cried. “Bob’s a mere kid. Gerda treats him exactly as she treats her brother.”

His voice had become high-pitched. That curious, furtive little movement of the hand, full of old familiarities, returned to him most teasingly.

“Don’t talk too loud,” murmured his mother. “We’re not in Lenty Lane.”

“Why did you say that?” he asked.