"'Let you know how it' what?" interrupted Mrs. Morel.
"'Transpires'--oh yes!"
"'Transpires!'" repeated Mrs. Morel mockingly. "I thought she was so well educated!"
William felt slightly uncomfortable, and abandoned this maiden, giving Paul the corner with the thistles. He continued to read extracts from his letters, some of which amused his mother, some of which saddened her and made her anxious for him.
"My lad," she said, "they're very wise. They know they've only got to flatter your vanity, and you press up to them like a dog that has its head scratched."
"Well, they can't go on scratching for ever," he replied. "And when they've done, I trot away."
"But one day you'll find a string round your neck that you can't pull off," she answered.
"Not me! I'm equal to any of 'em, mater, they needn't flatter themselves."
"You flatter YOURSELF," she said quietly.
Soon there was a heap of twisted black pages, all that remained of the file of scented letters, except that Paul had thirty or forty pretty tickets from the corners of the notepaper--swallows and forget-me-nots and ivy sprays. And William went to London, to start a new life.