Uncle Henry paused, and, desiring to make a point, took the hearthrug.
"I can't understand you," he continued, with legs well apart. "If Peter is going to have my money, he's got to learn how to spend it. Look at myself. I have had sense to make a bit of money, but I've got no more idea of spending it than a baby. I want Peter to learn."
"That's all right," said Mr. Paragon. "But what's going to happen to Peter when he gets into the hands of a lot of doctors?"
"Peter must take his chance."
"It's well for you to talk. You're as blue as they're made, and a churchwarden of the parish."
Uncle Henry solemnly put down his glass. "George," he said, "it does not matter to a mortal fool what I am, nor what you are. Peter's got to find things out for himself. He'll get past you and me; and, whether he comes out your side or mine, he'll have more in his head."
Uncle Henry ended with an air of having closed the discussion, and, after some friendly meditation, whose results were flung out in the fashion of men too used to each other's habit of thought to need elaborate intercourse, Mr. Paragon rose and went thoughtfully home.
By the time he reached the Kidderminster Road he had definitely settled the question of Peter's career. Peter should get knowledge. He should possess the inner fortress of learning. He should be the perfect knight of the oppressed people, armed at all points. Thus did Mr. Paragon reconcile his Radical prejudices with his fatherly ambition.
Arrived home, he showed the headmaster's letter to Mrs. Paragon.
She read it with the pride of a mother who knows the worth of her boy, but nevertheless likes it to be acknowledged.