ask about Myra—what her name was; and he wanted to get Boney to talk about Myra and now he couldn't. His ears were stretched for the sound of her voice, as the boys went past the kitchen door and into the pantry, beyond which was a huge dark cupboard. That cupboard, Boney said, was his; and lighting a safety lantern he began to show his treasurers—earlier toys, a pair of roller skates, cards with butterfly's wings carelessly fixed on and now damaged. In a comer stood some nets. "These are mine, too," said Boney, gloatingly; and conscious of his wealth he grew suddenly expansive and taking one of the nets in his hand and testing the fabric, thrust it carelessly upon Richard. "You take it, Clyne. I've got a lot."
Richard was angry . . . the very thing, and he was angry. "I don't want it. I don't care about butterfly hunting. It's a silly game—all right for kids."
Boney took it back, seeming glad to keep it. The next moment Richard said, "I'm going on now," and moved to the door.
Boney put out the light and the two stepped away. Boney opened another door and Richard caught a glimpse of a high kitchen with heavy beams and a fire blazing behind a huge cook, who at once looked aggressive. Boney promptly shut the door, muttering, "Ugly old thing!" and led Richard towards the white gate. There he swung idly, and Richard said, "Next term is your last, then?"
"Yes. And I shall be jolly glad. I don't know where I'm going; my father hasn't settled it. He is in Russia, and he's coming back before Christmas. I've asked him for a Russian wolf-hound. Perhaps he'll take me with him next time he goes—me or Myra. Myra's going to Cheltenham when we move, so most likely it will be me. Just think, Clyne! Sledges in the snow, snow everywhere, and you wear everything fur. Wolves, lots of wolves, and you can hunt them—ugh! Frozen rivers, and big prairies in the summer—must be bigger than America."
"Does Myra want to go?" Richard was conscious of sadness at the thought that she might be leaving England.
"Myra? I don't know—I don't suppose so. . . . Girls—well. But even if I don't go next time I shall go soon, if mother will let me." Boney licked his lips at the prospect of Russian snows, and then said sharply, "Don't you wish you could go?"
