John leisurely drank tea before replying. It was his way.
“All right,” said John. He did not use three words where two would do.
Mr. Marble had guessed already that John would have little to say, and the idea pleased him, for he knew that his next words would force him into saying something more than usual.
“You’ll be leaving at the end of this term, John,” he said.
John put down his cup with a slight clatter and stared at his father.
“Really?” he said.
Only one word this time. Somehow it irritated Mr. Marble.
“Yes. I shall be entering you for the College next term.”
Mr. Marble was doomed to disappointment. John said nothing for a while. He was too stunned to speak. Nearly four years at his secondary school had endeared the place to him, and he had begun to look forward to the alluring prospect of prefectship and “colours.” This cup had been rudely snatched from his lips. And he was to be sent to the College. Sydenham College was a public school, one of the second rank only, though this subtle distinction did not matter to John at that age, and there was no love lost between the secondary foundation and this lordly place, whose boys rode on motor-bicycles, and turned up their noses at the rest of humanity.
It was this that made the sharpest appeal to John’s dumb but sensitive little soul. At Sydenham College he would be torn apart from the friends he had made during four long summers. He, too, would have to turn up his nose at Manton and Price and good old Jones, whose glasses were always bent the wrong way. He wouldn’t, of course, but—he realized this with a flash of prophetic insight—they would expect him to and that would be just as bad. For the moment John saw things very clearly. At the College he would be received and treated like a secondary boy, and at the School there would be instinctive hostility towards him. He would not be fish, nor fowl, nor good red herring.
“Oh, say something, for goodness’ sake,” said Mr. Marble, pettishly. “Don’t sit there staring like a stuffed dummy.”
John addressed his eyes to his plate. “Thank you, father,” he said.
“Confound it, boy,” said Mr. Marble, “anyone would think you didn’t want to go there. The finest public school in England, and you’re going there. And”—here Mr. Marble threw his finest bait—“if you get on well there and distinguish yourself, there might be that motorbike I’ve heard you talking about, some day.”
But the effort was vain. Even a motor-bicycle meant nothing to John if it was conditional upon his going to the College. If Mr. Marble had only mentioned it before he had mentioned the other, John’s reception of the suggestions might have been different. As it was, John could only mumble “thank you” again and fidget with the crumbs on his plate. Mr. Marble turned from him exasperated, and addressed his real favourite, Winnie, instead.
“And you, miss,” he said, with a jocosity which, unwonted as it was, had precisely the opposite effect to the one he desired, “what do you want most?”
It was an unsatisfactory question to put suddenly to an unprepared fourteen-year-old even if she was nearly fifteen. Winnie thought and fumbled with her dress, and looked away as she became conscious of the concentrated gaze of everyone in the room. To her aid came the recollection of what she most envied the biggest girl in her form.
“Green garters,” she said.
Mr. Marble roared with laughter, only the tiniest bit forced.
“You’ll have a lot more than that,” he laughed. “We’ll be buying you a new outfit altogether this week, lock, stock, and barrel. What do you say to going away to a nice school, a real young ladies’ school, where as likely as not you’ll ride a horse in the mornings, and have all the things you fancy, and be friends with lords’ daughters?”
“Ooh, I should like that,” said Winnie, but it was only modified rapture. Mr. Marble had sprung his little surprise too surprisingly to have the effect he desired. But he was satisfied for the moment.
“But is this all true?” asked Winnie. “Are we really all going to have just what we like?”
“As true as true. We can have just whatever we like,” said Mr. Marble, overjoyed to find Winnie, at least, impressed.
“Well, what’s mummie going to have?” continued Winnie.
Mr. Marble turned to his wife, who had sat behind his shoulder, suddenly, when she heard this surprising conversation begin. Mr. Marble looked at his wife, and she began to think, confusedly, as always.
“Anything I want at all?” she asked, more to gain time than from any other motive.
“Anything you want at all,” repeated Mr. Marble.
Mrs. Marble let her mind travel free, without hindrance from the strait limits of expense which had hedged it in all her life. And her thoughts flew straight, as they often did, to green fields and the sunlight in the hedgerows. With the clearness of mental vision so often granted to those of stumbling intellect a picture rose before her mind’s eye of a sunny, hyacinth-scented lawn, full of the murmuring of bees, sleepy little hills, half-wooded, in the distance, and Mr. Marble beside her, kind and a little attentive and loverlike.
“Oh, do be quick, mummie,” said Winnie.
Mrs. Marble translated her thoughts to the best of her ability.
“I want a new house and a nice garden,” said Mrs. Marble.
Mr. Marble made no comment. He was so silent that in time they all turned and looked at him. He had shrunk back in his chair, literally shrunk, so that he only seemed to be half the bulk he had been when he came in. His face was blank, and his lips moved without uttering a sound. He rallied in the end.
“You won’t have that,” he said. “You’ll never have that.”
Then he guessed at the strangeness of his manner from their surprised expressions, and tried to mask it.
“Houses are hard to get these days,” he
