“You’ve done very well—”
“Thank you,” said Peter Hope sarcastically. “It’s very kind of you. Perhaps when you’ve time, you’ll write me out a testimonial.”
“—up till now,” concluded the imperturbable Clodd. “A girl of eighteen wants to know something else besides mathematics and the classics. You don’t understand them.”
“I do understand them,” asserted Peter Hope. “What do you know about them? You’re not a father.”
“You’ve done your best,” admitted William Clodd in a tone of patronage that irritated Peter greatly; “but you’re a dreamer; you don’t know the world. The time is coming when the girl will have to think of a husband.”
“There’s no need for her to think of a husband, not for years,” retorted Peter Hope. “And even when she does, is strumming on the piano going to help her?”
“I tink—I tink,” said Dr. Smith, who had hitherto remained a silent listener, “our young frent Clodd is right. You haf never quite got over your idea dat she was going to be a boy. You haf taught her de tings a boy should know.”
“You cut her hair,” added Clodd.
“I don’t,” snapped Peter.
“You let her have it cut—it’s the same thing. At eighteen she knows more about the ancient Greeks and Romans than she does about her own frocks.”