Again I must have dozed.
“It depends,” said the grey man, “upon what he is going to be. For the classics, of course, Oxford.”
“He's going to be very clever,” said my mother. She spoke as one who knows.
“We'll hope so,” said the grey man.
“I shouldn't be surprised,” said my mother, “if he turned out a poet.”
The grey man said something in a low tone that I did not hear.
“I'm not so sure,” answered my mother, “it's in the blood. I've often thought that you, Luke, ought to have been a poet.”
“I never had the time,” said the grey man. “There were one or two little things—”
“They were very beautiful,” interrupted my mother. The clatter of the knives and forks continued undisturbed for a few moments. Then continued the grey man:
“There would be no harm, provided I made enough. It's the law of nature. One generation earns, the next spends. We must see. In any case, I think I should prefer Oxford for him.”