"Well, if you are not keen, what is the use?—still, you have got to learn to hold your own with other chaps. And some day, my son, you will have to make up your mind what you want to be. And most things that are worth doing mean education—of a kind."
"I shall work, pater."
"But why?"
"Because—you will be paying."
Sorrell clasped him across the shoulders.
"A sense of duty? Is that it?"
"No,—something more, pater. Because I know you are keen for me to learn. O, you know why."
"I think I do, my son."
They had many more talks on the same subject, and Sorrell confessed that his own particular ambition was to send Kit to a good preparatory school, and after that to a public one. At least—that was his plan for the moment. He might change it. All academic education had its disadvantages. He explained them to Kit.
Also, there would have to be an element of concealment. It could not be known that Sorrell was the son of an hotel porter.
"You would have to apologize for your father, Kit. Or—if it were found out they might ask me to remove you. Well, we'll see. I'll ask Mr. Roland about it."
But the decision was taken by Christopher himself. He announced it after three days of solemn heart searchings.
"I'll go to the town school, pater."
"Why?"
"Must I tell you?"
"Not if you don't want to."
"I'm not going to a place—where."
He flushed and grew suddenly inarticulate, and Sorrell understood. It was not that Kit was ashamed of his father,—but he was not going to apologize for him to other boys, or to join in a concealment. That would be humbug.
"I shouldn't have to stay there—very long. I'm nearly twelve, pater. And then—after that—I should be free to learn what I wanted to learn."
"I'm not sure that you haven't got it," said his father.
