"Alexander, I'm not a worldly woman, but to go to that little place would be wasting you. Why, you're brilliant! And anybody would do to teach those lumps of boys. I could do it myself."
"I was one of them once. Oh, Mother!" he stood up and let out the passion of his past restraint and the hopes he wanted to keep uppermost. "Oh, Mother, does it matter whom I teach? It's not the learning I'll get into their thick heads—there'll be little enough of that; it's the men I want to make of them, whether they belong to the tinkers, and tailors, and the rest, or to the cabinet ministers! Do you think that God has different values for different folks?"
"Well, I'm not in His counsels, but from the way He makes some of them, you'd think He had a grudge against them. But you were made whole, Alexander, and you've got to do something great with yourself."
"And isn't it a grand thing to think you're going to fashion men?"
"I'm sure you'll enjoy the feeling," she said drily; "but I doubt if you'll do much." She saw the familiar tightening of his lips.
"I'm going to try, anyway," he said.
"Your father won't be pleased."
"That's the last thing I'd expect."
"It's a waste. What did you go to Oxford for? It's a waste of time, and money, and talent."
"It shan't be, Mother."