“Blake,” said Mary gently.
He answered, “Well, I’m just trying to think of what to say. I don’t know what the matter is. I can’t get along with people, I guess.”
“What sort of people, darling?”
“Any sort. Masters. Boys. Anybody. It’s my general attitude.”
“What?” cried Bob, smiling.
“My general attitude. That’s what Dr. Miller said. He said I was unsocial and spoiled and an irritant to the community.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” said Bob. “But what did you do? He wouldn’t have sent you away for that. There must have been something more specific.”
“There wasn’t, really. I had a row with the English master about a theme because I left out some commas and they were putting it into the school magazine and he edited it. He put the commas back in and ran some of the sentences together so that they would be well-rounded, he said. I told him he hadn’t any right to do it. He didn’t have, either. He said there were certain rules of language, and I said, all right, I would make up some more. He was sore.”
“What else?” said Mary.
“Then there were lots of little things. Mother, I hate that place. I told you, Christmas. I said this would happen.”