“No, no. Go on your way.”
“But I haven’t got any way, sir,” said Dexter desperately.
“Nonsense, nonsense! Go on.”
“Please, sir, I can’t. I’ve tried and tried over and over again, but the angles all get mixed up with the sides, and it is all such a muddle. I shall never learn Euclid. Is it any use?”
“Is it any use!” cried the tutor scornfully. “Look at me, sir. Has it been any use to me!”
Dexter looked at the face before him, and then right up the forehead, and wondered whether learning Euclid had made all the hair come off the top of his head.
“Well, go on.”
“I can’t, sir, please,” sighed the boy. “I know it’s something about squares, and ABC, and BAC, and CAB, and—but you produce the lines.”
“But you do not produce them, sir,” cried Mr Limpney angrily; “nor anything else! You ought to be ashamed of yourself, sir!”
“I am,” said Dexter innocently. “I’m a dreadfully stupid boy, sir, and I don’t think I’ve got any brains.”