“And there’s something else.  You must begin thinking of your scholarship now.  You won’t get anything unless you start working very seriously.”

Philip was irritated by the lecture.  He was angry with the headmaster, and angry with himself.

“I don’t think I’m going up to Oxford,” he said.

“Why not?  I thought your idea was to be ordained.”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

“Why?”

Philip did not answer.  Mr. Perkins, holding himself oddly as he always did, like a figure in one of Perugino’s pictures, drew his fingers thoughtfully through his beard.  He looked at Philip as though he were trying to understand and then abruptly told him he might go.

Apparently he was not satisfied, for one evening, a week later, when Philip had to go into his study with some papers, he resumed the conversation; but this time he adopted a different method:  he spoke to Philip not as a schoolmaster with a boy but as one human being with another.  He did not seem to care now that Philip’s work was poor, that he ran small chance against keen rivals of carrying off the scholarship necessary for him to go to Oxford:  the important matter was his changed intention about his life afterwards.  Mr. Perkins set himself to revive his eagerness to be ordained.  With infinite skill he worked on his feelings, and this was easier since he was himself genuinely moved.  Philip’s change of mind caused him bitter distress, and he really thought he was throwing away his chance of happiness in life for he knew not what.  His voice was very persuasive.  And Philip, easily moved by the emotion of others, very emotional himself notwithstanding a placid exterior—­his face, partly by nature but also from the habit of all these years at school, seldom except by his quick flushing showed what he felt—­Philip was deeply touched by what the master said.  He was very grateful to him for the interest he showed, and he was conscience-stricken by the grief which he felt his behaviour caused him.  It was subtly flattering to know that with the whole school to think about Mr. Perkins should trouble with him, but at the same time something else in him, like another person standing at his elbow, clung desperately to two words.

“I won’t.  I won’t.  I won’t.”

He felt himself slipping.  He was powerless against the weakness that seemed to well up in him; it was like the water that rises up in an empty bottle held over a full basin; and he set his teeth, saying the words over and over to himself.

“I won’t.  I won’t.  I won’t.”

At last Mr. Perkins put his hand on Philip’s shoulder.

“I don’t want to influence you,” he said.  “You must decide for yourself.  Pray to Almighty God for help and guidance.”

When Philip came out of the headmaster’s house there was a light rain falling.  He went under the archway that led to the precincts, there was not a soul there, and the rooks were silent in the elms.  He walked round slowly.  He felt hot, and the rain did him good.  He thought over all that Mr. Perkins had said, calmly now that he was withdrawn from the fervour of his personality, and he was thankful he had not given way.