"No," said Mr. Elliot, who had all the money. "Coddling."

"I agree that boys ought to rough it; but when a boy is lame and
very delicate, he roughs it sufficiently if he leaves home.
Rickie can't play games. He doesn't make friends. He isn't
brilliant. Thinking it over, I feel that as it's like this, we
can't ever hope to give him the ordinary education. Perhaps you
could think it over too." No.

"I am sure that things are best for him as they are. The
day-school knocks quite as many corners off him as he can stand.
He hates it, but it is good for him. A public school will not be
good for him. It is too rough. Instead of getting manly and hard,
he will--"

"My head, please."

Rickie departed in a state of bewildered misery, which was
scarcely ever to grow clearer.

Each holiday he found his father more irritable, and a little
weaker. Mrs. Elliot was quickly growing old. She had to manage
the servants, to hush the neighbouring children, to answer the
correspondence, to paper and re-paper the rooms--and all for the
sake of a man whom she did not like, and who did not conceal his
dislike for her. One day she found Rickie tearful, and said
rather crossly, "Well, what is it this time?"

He replied, "Oh, mummy, I've seen your wrinkles your grey hair--