To Minney her one time charge was now more than ever ‘Master’ Eustace; in other ways her feeling for him remained unchanged by anything that happened to him. He was just her little boy who was obeying the natural order of things by growing up. Barbara was too young to realize that the hair she sometimes pulled belonged to an embryo schoolboy. In any case, she was an egotist, and had she been older she would have regarded her brother’s translation to another sphere from the angle of how it affected her. She would have set about finding other strings to pull now that she was denied his hair.

Thus, the grown-ups, though they did not want to lose him, viewed Eustace’s metamorphosis without too much misgiving; and moreover they felt that he must be shown the forbearance and accorded the special privileges of one who has an ordeal before him. Even Aunt Sarah, who did not like the whistling or the hands in the pockets or the slang, only rebuked them half-heartedly.

But Hilda, beautiful, unapproachable Hilda, could not reconcile herself to the turn events had taken. Was she not and would she not always be nearly four years older than her brother Eustace? Was she not his spiritual adviser, pledged to make him a credit to her and to himself and to his family?

He was her care, her task in life. Indeed, he was much more than that; her strongest feelings centred in him and at the thought of losing him she felt as if her heart was being torn out of her body.

So while Eustace grew more perky, Hilda pined. She had never carried herself well, but now she slouched along, hurrying past people she knew as if she had important business to attend to, and her beauty, had she been aware of it, might have been a pursuer she was trying to shake off.

Eustace must not go to school, he must not. She knew he would not want to, when the time came; but then it would be too late. She had rescued him from Anchorstone Hall, the lair of the highwayman, Dick Staveley, his hero and her bête noire; and she would rescue him again. But she must act, and act at once.

It was easy to find arguments. School would be bad for him. It would bring out the qualities he shared with other little boys, qualities which could be kept in check if he remained at home.

‘What are little boys made of?’ she demanded, and looked round in triumph when Eustace ruefully but dutifully answered:

He would grow rude and unruly and start being cruel to animals. Schoolboys always were. And he would fall ill; he would have a return of his bronchitis. Anchorstone was a health-resort. Eustace (who loved statistics and had a passion for records) had told her that Anchorstone had the ninth lowest death-rate in England. (This thought had brought him some fleeting comfort in the darkest hours of his obsession.) If he went away from Anchorstone he might die. They did not want him to die, did they?

Her father and her aunt listened respectfully to Hilda. Since her mother’s death they had treated her as if she was half grown up, and they often told each other that she had an old head on young shoulders.

Hilda saw that she had impressed them and went on to say how much better Eustace was looking, which was quite true, and how much better behaved he was, except when he was pretending to be a schoolboy (Eustace reddened at this). And, above all, what a lot he knew; far more than most boys of his age, she said. Why, besides knowing that Anchorstone had the ninth lowest death-rate in England, he knew that Cairo had the highest death-rate in the world, and would speedily have been wiped out had it not also had the highest birthrate. (This double pre-eminence made the record-breaking city one of Eustace’s favourite subjects of contemplation.) And all this he owed to Aunt Sarah’s teaching.

Aunt Sarah couldn’t help being pleased; she was well-educated herself and knew that Eustace was quick at his lessons.

‘I shouldn’t be surprised if he gets into quite a high class,’ his father said; ‘you’ll see, he’ll be bringing home a prize or two, won’t you, Eustace?’

‘Oh, but boys don’t always learn much at school,’ objected Hilda.

‘How do you know they don’t?’ said Mr. Cherrington teasingly. ‘She never speaks to any other boys, does she, Eustace?’

But before Eustace had time to answer, Hilda surprised them all by saying: ‘Well, I do, so there! I spoke to Gerald Steptoe!’

Everyone was thunderstruck to hear this, particularly Eustace, because Hilda had always had a special dislike for Gerald Steptoe, who was a sturdy, round-faced, knockabout boy with rather off-hand manners.

‘I met him near the post office,’ Hilda said, ‘and he took off his cap, so I had to speak to him, hadn’t I?’

Eustace said nothing. Half the boys in Anchorstone, which was only a small place, knew Hilda by sight and took their caps off when they passed her in the street, she was so pretty; and grown-up people used to stare at her, too, with a smile dawning on their faces. Eustace had often seen Gerald Steptoe take off his cap to Hilda, but she never spoke to him if she could help it, and would not let Eustace either.

Aunt Sarah knew this.

‘You were quite right, Hilda. I don’t care much for Gerald Steptoe, but we don’t want to be rude to anyone, do we?’

Hilda looked doubtful.

‘Well, you know he goes to a school near the one—St. Ninian’s—that you want to send Eustace to.’

‘Want to! That’s good,’ said Mr. Cherrington. ‘He is going, poor chap, on the seventeenth of January—that’s a month from to-day—aren’t you, Eustace? Now don’t you try to unsettle him, Hilda.’

Eustace looked nervously at Hilda and saw the tears standing in her eyes.

‘Don’t say that to her, Alfred,’ said Miss Cherrington. ‘You can see she minds much more than he does.’

Hilda didn’t try to hide her tears, as some girls would have; she just brushed them away and gave a loud sniff.

‘It isn’t Eustace’s feelings I’m thinking about. If he wants to leave us all, let him. I’m thinking of his—his education.’ She paused, and noticed that at the word education their faces grew grave. ‘Do you know what Gerald told me?’

‘Well, what did he tell you?’ asked Mr. Cherrington airily, but Hilda saw he wasn’t quite at his ease.

‘He told me they didn’t teach the boys anything at St. Ninian’s,’ said Hilda. ‘They just play games all the time. They’re very good at games, he said, better than his school—I can’t remember what it’s called.’

‘St. Cyprian’s,’ put in Eustace. Any reference to a school made him feel self-important.

‘I knew it was another saint. But the boys at St. Ninian’s aren’t saints at all, Gerald said. They’re all the sons of rich swanky people who go there to do nothing. Gerald said that what they don’t know would fill books.’

There was a pause. No one spoke, and Mr. Cherrington and his sister exchanged uneasy glances.

‘I expect he exaggerated, Hilda,’ said Aunt Sarah. ‘Boys do exaggerate sometimes. It’s a way of showing off. I hope Eustace won’t learn to. As you know, Hilda, we went into the whole thing very thoroughly. We looked through twenty-nine prospectuses before we decided, and your father thought Mr. Waghorn a very gentlemanly, understanding sort of man.’

‘The boys call him “Old Foghorn”,’ said Hilda, and was rewarded by seeing Miss Cherrington stiffen in distaste. ‘And they imitate him blowing his nose, and take bets about how many times he’ll clear his throat during prayers. I don’t like having to tell you this,’ she added virtuously, ‘but I thought I ought to.’

‘What are bets, Daddy?’ asked Eustace, hoping to lead the conversation into safer channels.

‘Bets, my boy?’ said Mr. Cherrington. “Well, if you think something will happen, and another fellow doesn’t, and you bet him sixpence that it will, then if it does he pays you sixpence, and if it doesn’t you pay him sixpence.’