“No, no!” Mr. Mainwearing answered in clear tones. “Your aunt, Lady Charlotte Sydenham.”
Respectful glances at Peter, and a stare of admiration from Probyn.
After a season of reflection Peter held up his hand. “Please, Sir, I don’t write letters to Lady Charlotte.”
“You must begin.”
Still further reflection. “I want to write to my Aunt Phyllis.”
“Nonsense! Do as I tell you.”
Peter reflected again for some minutes. He was deeply moved. He controlled a disposition to weep. (No one was going to see Peter blub in this school—ever.) Then Mr. Mainwearing saw him begin to write, with intervals of deep thought. But the letter was an unsatisfactory one.
“Dear Aunt Phyllis,” it began—in spite of instructions.
“This is a very nice school and I like it very much. I have no pocket-money. We eat Toke. Please come and take me away now. Your affectionate nephew
“Peter.”