Philip looked up at him with surprise. The master forced his lips into a smile, but his eyes remained grave and sad.
“It is cruel to discover one’s mediocrity only when it is too late. It does not improve the temper.”
He gave a little laugh as he said the last words and quickly walked out of the room.
Philip mechanically took up the letter from his uncle. The sight of his handwriting made him anxious, for it was his aunt who always wrote to him. She had been ill for the last three months, and he had offered to go over to England and see her; but she, fearing it would interfere with his work, had refused. She did not want him to put himself to inconvenience; she said she would wait till August and then she hoped he would come and stay at the vicarage for two or three weeks. If by any chance she grew worse she would let him know, since she did not wish to die without seeing him again. If his uncle wrote to him it must be because she was too ill to hold a pen. Philip opened the letter. It ran as follows: