“No—only I'd like you to want to know things—things like what people are like inside—their thinking part I mean, not their real insides. People like Mother Gill and old Binns and Prester Ma: and then what one's going to do when one's grown up—you never want to know that.”
“No, it'll just come I suppose. Of course, I shan't be clever like the governor.”
“No, I don't think you will.”
Once again: “Do you mind my being so stupid, Peter?”
“No—I'm awfully stupid too. But I like to wonder about things. There was once a man I met at home with rings and things who lived in London....” Peter stops, Galleon wouldn't be interested in that.
“Anyhow, you know, you've got Cards—he's an awfully clever chap.”
“Yes, he's wonderful,” Peter sighs, “and he's seen such a lot of things.”
“Yes, but you know I don't think Cards really cares for you as much as I do.” This is an approach to sentiment, and Peter brushes it hastily aside:
“I like you both awfully. But I say, won't it be splendid to be grown up in London?”
“I don't know—lots of fellows don't like it.”