“And damn it!” said Oswald petulantly; “your school is about as good a school as I’ve seen or am likely to see....
“I had an idea,” he went on, “of just getting the very best out of those two youngsters—the boy especially—of making every hour of his school work a gift of so much power or skill or subtlety, of opening the world to him like a magic book.... The boy’s tugging at the magic covers....”
He stopped short.
“There are no such schools,” said Mr. Mackinder compactly. “This is as good a school as you will find.”
And there he left the matter for the time. But in the evening he dined with Oswald at his hotel, and it may be that iced champagne had something to do with a certain relaxation from his afternoon restraint. Oswald had already arranged about Peter, but he wanted the little man to talk more. So he set him an example. He talked of his own life. He represented it as a life of disappointment and futility. “I envy you your life of steadfast usefulness.” He spoke of his truncated naval career and his disfigurement. Of the years of uncertainty that had followed. He talked of the ambitions and achievements of other men, of the large hopes and ambitions of youth.
“I too,” said Mr. Mackinder, warming for a moment, and then left his sentence unfinished. Oswald continued to generalize....
“All life, I suppose, is disappointment—is anyhow largely disappointment,” said Mr. Mackinder presently.
“We get something done.”
“Five per cent., ten per cent., of what we meant to do.”
The schoolmaster reflected. Oswald refilled his glass for him.