“A little too noisy just at present.”
“Oh, it’s a sign of his perfect health. Surely you wouldn’t see him mooning about, or shutting himself up with books?”
“Like that poor little fellow of the rector’s,” said Mrs. Stratton. “That child ought to be sent off to school.”
“Certainly. They’d soon knock him into shape, take the dreaminess out of him. Robust health before everything. Are your other boys as hearty as this one?”
“Oh, every bit! My eldest lad has broken almost every bone in his body, and seems all the better for it.”
“Why, that’s magnificent! Their lives will be a joy to them. Constitution, of course, is much; but I’m sure they have to thank you for an admirable bringing-up.”
Ada, who sat close by, was regarding Kingcote curiously, just suppressing a smile as she caught a glimpse of Mrs. Stratton’s gratified face.
“This is your ideal of education?” she put in gravely.
“Assuredly it is,” was Kingcote’s answer. “Surely that education is best which leads to happiness. That boy will never be afflicted with nervous disorders; he will never be melancholy, hypochondriacal, despairing; he will never see the world in any but the rosiest light, never be troubled by abstract speculation, never doubt for a moment about his place and his work. The plan of education which has such a result as that is beneficence itself. Don’t you think so, Miss Warren?”
“To be sure I wouldn’t have the minds altogether neglected,” said Mrs. Stratton. “Come and listen, Isabel; Mr. Kingcote is saying the most interesting things.”