“No; you did pretty well when you began, but you know that was in the holidays, when you had no Latin and Greek to do.”
“Oh, but, Margaret, they won’t take so much time when I have once got over the difficulties, and see my way, but just now they have put Norman into such a frightfully difficult play, that I can hardly get on at all with it, and there’s a new kind of Greek verses, too, and I don’t make out from the book how to manage them. Norman showed me on Saturday, but mine won’t be right. When I’ve got over that, I shan’t be so hurried.”
“But Norman will go on to something harder, I suppose.”
“I dare say I shall be able to do it.”
“Perhaps you might, but I want you to consider if you are not working beyond what can be good for anybody. You see Norman is much cleverer than most boys, and you are a year younger; and besides doing all his work at the head of the school, his whole business of the day, you have Cocksmoor to attend to, and your own lessons, besides reading all the books that come into the house. Now isn’t that more than is reasonable to expect any head and hands to do properly?”
“But if I can do it?”
“But can you, dear Ethel? Aren’t you always racing from one thing to another, doing them by halves, feeling hunted, and then growing vexed?”
“I know I have been cross lately,” said Ethel, “but it’s the being so bothered.”
“And why are you bothered? Isn’t it that you undertake too much?”
“What would you have me do?” said Ethel, in an injured, unconvinced voice. “Not give up my children?”