"
My father rubbed his head vaguely. "Yes, yes, you are right. I have
been neglecting the boy. But pray end as honestly as you began, and
do not pretend to be consulting my future when you are really
pleading for his. To begin with, I don't want a companion; next, I
should not immediately make a companion of Harry by sending him away
to school; and, lastly, you know as well as I, that long before he
finished his schooling I should be in my grave."
"Well, then, consider what a classical education would do for Harry!
I feel sure that had I--pardon the supposition--been born a man, and
made conversant with the best thoughts of the ancients--Socrates, for
example--"
"What about him?" my father demanded.
"So wise, as I have always been given to understand, yet in his own
age misunderstood, by his wife especially! And, to crown all, unless
I err, drowned in a butt of hemlock!"
"Dear madam, pardon me; but how many of these accidents to Socrates
are you ascribing to his classical education?"
"But it comes out in so many ways," Miss Plinlimmon persisted; "and
it does make such a difference! There's a _je ne sais quoi_.
You can tell it even in the way they handle a knife and fork!"
That evening, after supper, Miss Plinlimmon declined her customary
game of cards with me, on the pretence that she felt tired, and sat
for a long while fumbling with a newspaper, which I recognized for a
week-old copy of the "Falmouth Packet.
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