The Flowering Thorn Read Online Free Page A

dear, he—he’s quite a nice child.”
    â€œOr why not advertise him too?” suggested Lesley. ‘ Boy, four years: healthy, ginger hair, no incumbrances: nominal to good home. ’ It sounds rather attractive.”
    And turning again in the direction of the rug, she suddenly saw that she had spoken no more than the truth. There really was something rather attractive about him, something to do, perhaps, with his complete imperviousness to all but the matter in hand. Far overhead, remote as the Fates, three irrelevant women babbled or were silent: they had no bearing on his game, so he took no notice of them. Bang! went his fist, crash! went the tower; and all was ready to start again. Once he sat down heavily on an unexpected brick: frequently on the bare parquet floor: but even as he rubbed, the other hand was always busy at rebuilding. With a growing fascination, Lesley watched.
    â€œA place in Essex,” murmured Lady Chrome vaguely, “run in connection with some church or other.…”
    Orphanages again! From all one heard, the food was now quite decent; but it would be rather wasteful if all that crowing, relishing energy, that bundle of clean and vigorous life, were simply to be forced, along with a hundred other inferior bundles, into the one most convenient mould! For comparing him with the other children (admittedly few) of her acquaintance, Lesley had little doubt that the Problem, as raw material, was of exceptional quality. His game, for example, was an equal mixture of joyful pugnacity and careful construction. At the constant bumps to his behind he displayed a natural concern, but no resentment. And it was probably an optical illusion, but he seemed to be growing as one looked at him.
    â€˜Maternal pride—it really is understandable,’ thought Lesley curiously. And yet, and yet—a child of that age was a woman’s full-time job. He had to be washed, fed, exercised and instructed from about eight in the morning till about seven at night. After that, she supposed, one could go out to dinner in the usual way: but what about getting the hair waved? There was a place in Bond Street where they took charge of dogs, even Alsatians, but nothing was said about small boys.… And then there would be his hair to get cut, and a thousand other things as well. Yes, a full-time job if there ever was one, though probably not quite such a martyrdom as women were apt to make out: for was there really any reason why from seven o’clock onwards life should not go on precisely as before? Any full-time job, on such terms, would lose half its terrors: then why not this one in particular? Moreover, there was something—what was it?—something so extremely real about it. It was worth doing; and suddenly, idly, chiefly from a desire to upset someone, Lesley heard herself say,
    â€œDon’t bother about that advertisement, Aunt. I think I’ll adopt him myself.”
    2
    Almost before the words were out of her mouth, in a split second of perfect lucidity, Lesley Frewen had realised two things. The first was that she had not the least desire to adopt a child; the second, that the child had heard her.
    Though without comprehending. Comprehension—of those two swift phrases—how could she even for an instant have imagined it possible? It was only that, like a dog at a familiar voice, he had suddenly raised his head and fixed her with a long expectant gaze.… And all at once there flickered through her brain something she had heard from Douglas Ford: that a dog takes his orders less from the actual words than from the compulsive thought behind them.
    â€œBut, my dear!” It was Lady Chrome who first found her tongue, leaning purple with emotion above her own stately bust. “But my dear, you must be crazy! ”
    â€œRather foolish, dear child, and not really very amusing,” corroborated Aunt Alice.
    Both these opinions coinciding exactly with