“But we were just looking for you to start back to the hotel,” argued Mr. Rollins.

“I don’t care if you were!” said the boy in a sullen accent.

Sylvia and Judith looked on in amazement at this scene of insubordination, as new to them as all the rest of the boy’s actions.  He was standing still now, submitting in a gloomy silence to the various comments on his appearance, which was incredibly different from that with which he had started on his travels.  The starch remaining in a few places in his suit, now partly dried in the hot sun, caused the linen to stand out grotesquely in peaks and mud-streaked humps, his hair, still wet, hung in wisps about his very dirty face, his bare, red feet and legs protruded from shapeless knickerbockers.  His stepmother looked at him with her usual good-natured amused gaze.  “It is customary, before going in swimming, isn’t it, Arnold, to take your watch out of your pocket and put your cuff-links in a safe-place?” she suggested casually.

“Good Heavens!  His watch!” cried Mr. Rollins, clutching at his own sandy hair.

Professor Marshall clapped the boy encouragingly on the shoulder.  “Well, sir, you look more like a human being,” he said heartily, addressing himself, with defiance in his tone, to his sister.

She replied with a smile, “That rather depends, doesn’t it, Elliott, upon one’s idea of what constitutes a human being?”

Something in her sweet voice roused Judith to an ugly wrath.  She came forward and took her place protectingly beside her new playmate, scowling at her aunt.  “We were having a lovely time!” she said challengingly.

Mrs. Marshall-Smith looked down at the grotesque little figure and touched the brown cheek indulgently with her forefinger.  “That too rather depends upon one’s definition of a lovely time,” she replied, turning away, leaving with the indifference of long practice the unfortunate Mr. Rollins to the task of converting Arnold into a product possible to transport through the streets of a civilized town.

Before they went away that day, Arnold managed to seek Judith out alone, and with shamefaced clumsiness to slip his knife, quite new and three-bladed, into her hand.  She looked at it uncomprehendingly.  “For you—­to keep,” he said, flushing again, and looking hard into her dark eyes, which in return lightened suddenly from their usual rather somber seriousness into a smile, a real smile.  Judith’s smiles were far from frequent, but the recipient of one did not forget it.

CHAPTER IV

EVERY ONE’S OPINION OF EVERY ONE ELSE