He foraged fretfully and resentfully about, demanding to know if there was anything fit to eat in the house, and asserting, in no uncertain language, that he was dead sick of cold bread and milk, that the rhubarb tarts were sour enough to make a pig squeal.
Then, with a sudden pang of contrition, he remembered that this was not the way in which Agatha Doring bore her trials. So he consumed the remainder of his meal in silence and proud humility, remembering that from that day forward he was ordained to be misunderstood and ill-treated and misjudged.
A few minutes later his mother heard him bustling about the wood-shed, searching for soap and shoe-polish, slicking down his hair, and doing his best to sponge ancient and innumerable spots off his dust-stained Sunday clothes.
"Lonely O'Malley, what 're you sprucing up that way for, anyhow?" his astounded mother demanded, for such things were new in the career of her ever-changing son.
He fell back into his old attitude of silent humility, and addressed his parent as "mother," even as Agatha Doring would do.
