The conceit was fairly taken out of me now. To be called a little boy was bad enough; to be referred to as a child was even worse; but to be sent to bed at a quarter to eight on a summer evening was the crowning stroke. Certainly, Plummer’s itself was better than this.
What my mother and guardian said to one another I do not know. My mother, I think, had great faith in Mr Girdler’s wisdom; and although she tried not to think ill of me, would probably feel that he knew better than she did.
I knew my fate next morning—it was worse than my most hideous forebodings.
I was to work at my guardian’s office every morning, and in the afternoon I was to go up and learn Latin and arithmetic at—oh, how shall I say it?—a girls’ school!
For an hour after this discovery I candidly admit that I was sorry, unfeignedly sorry, I had not turned sneak and informed against Harry Tempest. I think even he would have wished me to do it rather than suffer this awful humiliation.
I had serious thoughts of running away, of going to sea, or sweeping a London crossing. But there were difficulties in the way; the chief of them being my mother.
“You mustn’t worry about it, Tommy,” said she. “Mr Girdler says it will be the best thing for you. It will be good for you to learn some business, you know, and then in the afternoon you will find Miss Bousfield very nice and clever.”
“It’s not the work I mind, mother,” said I; “it’s—it’s going to a girls’ school.”
“There’s nothing very dreadful about it, I’m sure,” said my mother, with a smile. “I was at one myself once.”
“But,” argued I, “you are only a—”