At last the meal was over, the things had been cleared away, and Peter was
bending over a sum in preparation for lessons on Monday. Such a sum--add
this and this and this and this and then divide it by that and multiply the
result by this!... and the figures (bad ill-written figures) crept over
the page and there were smudgy finger marks, and always between every other
line "London, looking-glasses, and fat Mr. Zanti laughing until the tears
ran down his face." Such a strange world where all these things could be
so curiously confused, all of them, one supposed, having their purpose and
meaning--even grandfather--and even 2469 X 2312 X 6201, and ever so many
more until they ran races round the page and up and down and in and out.

And then suddenly into the middle of the silence his father's voice:

"What are you doing there?"

"Sums, father--for Monday."

"You won't go back on Monday" (and this without the _Cornish Times_ moving
an inch).

"Not go back?"

"No. You are going away to school--to Devonshire--on Tuesday week."

And Peter's pencil fell clattering on to the paper, and the answer to that
sum is still an open question.