When he broached the subject, the headmaster of the preparatory school was in a dilemma.
Mr. Royal was an admirable parent from the commercial point of view. He paid the fees and never made a fuss; but there was no getting away from Mr. Royal's accent.
Mr. Wortley, an Etonian himself, didn't somehow think Eton was quite the school for Hildebrand. Too damp. There wasn't much chance of a boy getting into Winchester unless his father had been there before him. Had Mr. Royal been at Winchester?—Ah, bad luck. Then Rugby?—But Mr. Royal wouldn't send his son to a North country school. Mr. Royal's home was in the South; and so was his heart. What about Harrow?—Mr. Wortley's face brightened. Harrow was the very thing. He could see Hildebrand at Harrow in his mind's eye.
Later when his partner came into the study, after Mr. Royal's departure, Mr. Wortley announced the news with a little grin.
"Arrow for Ildebrand," he said.
"And quite good enough too," replied the other, who was also an Etonian, with a little snort.
To Harrow, then, Hildebrand went.
And just at the appropriate moment Mr. Royal Senior died.
That was not part of the Programme, but it was consummately tactful.
"My father didn't do much. He was a magistrate in Surrey," sounded so much better than the reality incarnate, rough and red and rather harsh—with the Blackpool accent.