"How are you, son?" I said inadequately.
Freddie looked up at me imploringly. "Take me away from here, dad. Please take me away from here!" He buried his head on Celia's breast and started to sob.
"We will, darling," said Celia. We exchanged swift glances.
"We certainly will, son, if you're unhappy here," I said rather mechanically. I was, to tell the truth, rather shocked by the emotional display. Freddie had always been such a self-contained little boy, so beyond his years in control and understanding, so undemonstrative.
"I think," said the principal portentously, "that matters would be best served if Edmund waited outside."
"I agree." There was no reason for Freddie to hear whatever remained to be said.
The kid made quite a fuss about leaving us, even for a few minutes, but in the end Masefield escorted him out with friendly firmness.
"We are all in accord then, that your son is to leave Chicago Classical School?"
"I think so," said Celia, with unconcealed hostility.
"What steps do we take now?" I asked more civilly. "Do we enroll him in the second grade of public school? I mean, is his work here fully transferable?"