When I came down to dessert that evening I pretended to be quite happy
and comfortable, and to have nothing on my mind. But happily few
children are clever at pretending what is not true, and as I was
constantly thinking about "that dreadful tutor," and puzzling over the
scraps of conversation I had heard to see if anything more could be
made out of them, my father soon found out that something was amiss.
"What is the matter, Regie?" he asked.
"Nothing, Father," I replied, with a very poor imitation of
cheerfulness and no approach to truth.
"My dear boy," said my father, frowning slightly (a thing I always
dreaded), "do not say what is untrue, for any reason. If you do not
want to tell me what troubles you, say, 'I'd rather not tell you,
please,' like a man, and I will not persecute you about it. But don't
say there is nothing the matter when your little head is quite full of
something that bothers you very much. As I said, I will not press you,
but as I love you, and wish to help you in every way I can, I think
you had better tell me."
Now, though I had really not thought I was doing wrong in listening to
the conversation I was not meant to hear, a _something_ which one
calls conscience made me feel ashamed of the whole matter.
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