"Paragon," said the headmaster, "I don't like your face. It isn't respectable."
Peter writhed softly, aware that he was ironically contemplated.
"This fighting in the streets," continued the headmaster, "is becoming a public nuisance. I should be sorry to believe that any of our boys provoked it. I hope it was self-defence."
"Mostly, sir," said Peter.
"I rely upon you, Paragon, to avoid making the school a nuisance to the parish."
"I realise my responsibility, sir."
Peter was quite serious, and the headmaster did not smile.
"Now, Paragon," he said, "I want to talk to you about something else. I have just written to your father. Do you know what you would like to do when you leave school?"
"No, sir," said Peter.
Peter had, in fancy, invented posts for himself that would tax to the fullest extent his complicated genius. He had lived a hundred lives. Nevertheless, bluntly asked whether he had thought about his future, he as bluntly answered "No," and knew in a moment that the answer was dreadfully true. His cloud cuckooland of battle and success, magnificent with pictures of himself in all the great attitudes of history, vanished at a simple question. He was rapidly growing old.