Explore "White Turrets" by Mary Louisa Molesworth on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Eric Balderson was awaiting his mother -- not impatiently, he was never impatient about anything -- in the drawing-room, as she had foreseen when they went in. And so was tea, thanks to Eric. He was one of those people in whose case it is not difficult to take the bad with the good, for the latter so decidedly predominated. If slow, tiresomely slow sometimes, he was so considerate; if in a certain sense heavy, he was so entirely to be relied upon, and in unselfish thoughtfulness for others, above all in small matters -- for in important ones I cannot endorse the popular axiom that "the best of men are selfish" -- he was almost like a woman.
"Now, isn't that nice? " said his mother, appreciatively. "Tea _just_ ready. You are clever, Eric. Isn't he a good boy, Winifred? Of course it's all due to my splendid bringing up, but still he does me credit, doesn't he?"