“What at?”
Philip was not prepared for the question, since in
fact he had not made up his mind. He had thought
of a dozen callings.
“The most suitable thing you could do is to
enter your father’s profession and become a
doctor.”
“Oddly enough that is precisely what I intend.”
He had thought of doctoring among other things, chiefly
because it was an occupation which seemed to give
a good deal of personal freedom, and his experience
of life in an office had made him determine never to
have anything more to do with one; his answer to the
Vicar slipped out almost unawares, because it was
in the nature of a repartee. It amused him to
make up his mind in that accidental way, and he resolved
then and there to enter his father’s old hospital
in the autumn.
“Then your two years in Paris may be regarded
as so much wasted time?”
“I don’t know about that. I had a
very jolly two years, and I learned one or two useful
things.”
“What?”
Philip reflected for an instant, and his answer was
not devoid of a gentle desire to annoy.
“I learned to look at hands, which I’d
never looked at before. And instead of just looking
at houses and trees I learned to look at houses and
trees against the sky. And I learned also that
shadows are not black but coloured.”
“I suppose you think you’re very clever.
I think your flippancy is quite inane.”
Taking the paper with him Mr. Carey retired to his
study. Philip changed his chair for that in which
his uncle had been sitting (it was the only comfortable
one in the room), and looked out of the window at the
pouring rain. Even in that sad weather there
was something restful about the green fields that
stretched to the horizon. There was an intimate
charm in the landscape which he did not remember ever
to have noticed before. Two years in France had
opened his eyes to the beauty of his own countryside.
He thought with a smile of his uncle’s remark.
It was lucky that the turn of his mind tended to flippancy.
He had begun to realise what a great loss he had sustained
in the death of his father and mother. That was
one of the differences in his life which prevented
him from seeing things in the same way as other people.
The love of parents for their children is the only
emotion which is quite disinterested. Among strangers
he had grown up as best he could, but he had seldom
been used with patience or forbearance. He prided
himself on his self-control. It had been whipped
into him by the mockery of his fellows. Then they
called him cynical and callous. He had acquired
calmness of demeanour and under most circumstances
an unruffled exterior, so that now he could not show
his feelings. People told him he was unemotional;
but he knew that he was at the mercy of his emotions:
an accidental kindness touched him so much that sometimes
