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.

XXII