Philip did not answer, but the headmaster read in his eyes that he realised already something of what he tried to indicate.
“If you go on as you are now you’ll find yourself head of the school one of these days, and you ought to be pretty safe for a scholarship when you leave. Have you got anything of your own?”
“My uncle says I shall have a hundred a year when I’m twenty-one.”
“You’ll be rich. I had nothing.”
The headmaster hesitated a moment, and then, idly drawing lines with a pencil on the blotting paper in front of him, went on.
“I’m afraid your choice of professions will be rather limited. You naturally couldn’t go in for anything that required physical activity.”
Philip reddened to the roots of his hair, as he always did when any reference was made to his club-foot. Mr. Perkins looked at him gravely.
“I wonder if you’re not oversensitive about your misfortune. Has it ever struck you to thank God for it?”
Philip looked up quickly. His lips tightened. He remembered how for months, trusting in what they told him, he had implored God to heal him as He had healed the Leper and made the Blind to see.
“As long as you accept it rebelliously it can only cause you shame. But if you looked upon it as a cross that was given you to bear only because your shoulders were strong enough to bear it, a sign of God’s favour, then it would be a source of happiness to you instead of misery.”