Philip flushed darkly. He was unused to compliments,
and no one had ever told him he was clever. The
headmaster put his hand on Philip’s shoulder.
“You know, driving things into the heads of
thick-witted boys is dull work, but when now and then
you have the chance of teaching a boy who comes half-way
towards you, who understands almost before you’ve
got the words out of your mouth, why, then teaching
is the most exhilarating thing in the world.”
Philip was melted by kindness; it had never occurred
to him that it mattered really to Mr. Perkins whether
he went or stayed. He was touched and immensely
flattered. It would be pleasant to end up his
school-days with glory and then go to Oxford:
in a flash there appeared before him the life which
he had heard described from boys who came back to
play in the O.K.S. match or in letters from the University
read out in one of the studies. But he was ashamed;
he would look such a fool in his own eyes if he gave
in now; his uncle would chuckle at the success of the
headmaster’s ruse. It was rather a come-down
from the dramatic surrender of all these prizes which
were in his reach, because he disdained to take them,
to the plain, ordinary winning of them. It only
required a little more persuasion, just enough to
save his self-respect, and Philip would have done
anything that Mr. Perkins wished; but his face showed
nothing of his conflicting emotions. It was placid
and sullen.
“I think I’d rather go, sir,” he
said.
Mr. Perkins, like many men who manage things by their
personal influence, grew a little impatient when his
power was not immediately manifest. He had a
great deal of work to do, and could not waste more
time on a boy who seemed to him insanely obstinate.
“Very well, I promised to let you if you really
wanted it, and I keep my promise. When do you
go to Germany?”
Philip’s heart beat violently. The battle
was won, and he did not know whether he had not rather
lost it.
“At the beginning of May, sir,” he answered.
“Well, you must come and see us when you get
back.”
He held out his hand. If he had given him one
more chance Philip would have changed his mind, but
he seemed to look upon the matter as settled.
Philip walked out of the house. His school-days
were over, and he was free; but the wild exultation
to which he had looked forward at that moment was
not there. He walked round the precincts slowly,
and a profound depression seized him. He wished
now that he had not been foolish. He did not
want to go, but he knew he could never bring himself
to go to the headmaster and tell him he would stay.
That was a humiliation he could never put upon himself.
He wondered whether he had done right. He was
dissatisfied with himself and with all his circumstances.
He asked himself dully whether whenever you got your
way you wished afterwards that you hadn’t.
