"Mr. Moggeridge had been sitting in the armchair by the fire-place. He was in his slippers and shirt-sleeves and he had been reading a newspaper. Now he looked at me over his silver-rimmed spectacles and spoke in a rich succulent voice.
"'I'm sorry you should be giving trouble to that dear mother of yours,' he said. 'Very sorry. She's a devoted saintly woman.'
"'Yessir,' I said.
"'Very few boys nowadays have the privilege of such an upbringing as yours. Some day you may understand what you owe her.'
("'I begin to,'" interjected Sarnac.)
"'It seems you want to launch out upon some extravagant plan of classes instead of settling down quietly in your proper sphere. Is that so?'
"'I don't feel I know enough yet, Sir,' I said. 'I feel I'd like to learn more.'
"'Knowledge isn't always happiness, Morty,' said Mrs. Moggeridge close to me—much too close to me.
"'And what may these classes be that are tempting you to forget the honour you owe your dear good mother?' said Mr. Moggeridge.
"'I don't know yet, Sir. They say there's classes in geology and French and things like that.'