Miss Bousfield was less disposed to bow the knee.
“I hope you won’t forget what you owe to Miss Steele,” said she. “I never hoped she could make as much as she did of such unpromising material. It’s what I always have said—good teaching can make a scholar of a dunce.”
“Ah,” said I, “you thought I was a dunce. I determined you should see I wasn’t. I am glad your school gets the credit of the exhibition.”
“I’ll wait and see how you turn out, before I am glad,” said she. “I hope the High School will not get a reputation for turning out prigs, Jones.”
I couldn’t quite understand Miss Bousfield. She was not as cordial as I thought she might be, considering the honour I had brought upon her school.
My guardian’s clerks were even less impressed by my distinction than she.
“What’s the matter this morning?” said Mr Evans on the day of my triumph, as I sat smiling inwardly at my desk.
“Nothing particular,” said I.
“It looks as if it was bad stomach-ache—I’d try camomile pills, if I were you.”
“Thank you—I don’t require pills. If you want to know, I’ve been up for an exam, and passed.”