But it was not the cleverness that Anthony envied. That would have been fatal to their friendship. He never could answer satisfactorily when Anthony would question him as to what he was going to be--what he was going to do with all his cleverness. He hadn’t made up his mind, he wasn’t quite sure. Sometimes he thought he would be a poet, at other times a musician or an artist, or go in for politics and be a statesman. “Which are you going to begin with when you leave school?” demanded Anthony. They had been studying in young Tetteridge’s bed-sitting-room and the lesson was over. Anthony’s eyes were fixed upon a motto over the washstand: “One thing at a time, and that done well, Is a very good rule, as many can tell.” Young Tetteridge admitted that the time was approaching when the point would have to be considered. Anthony was sitting on his hands, swinging his legs. Young Tetteridge was walking up and down; owing to the size of the room being ten by twelve it was a walk with many turns. “You see,” explained Anthony, “you’re not a gentlefolk.” Mr. Tetteridge claimed that he was, though personally attaching no importance to the fact. His father had been an Indian official. His mother, had she wished, could have claimed descent from one of the most renowned of Irish kings. “What I mean,” explained Anthony, “is that you’ve got to work for your living.” Mr. Tetteridge argued that he could live on very little. He was living just then on twelve shillings a week, picked up one way and another. “But when you’re married and have children?” suggested Anthony. Mr. Tetteridge flushed, and his eyes instinctively turned to a small photograph on the mantelpiece. It featured a pretty dolly-faced girl, the daughter of one of the masters at the grammar school. “You haven’t got any friends, have you?” asked Anthony. Mr. Tetteridge shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he answered. “Couldn’t you keep a school?” suggested Anthony, “for little boys and girls whose mothers don’t like them going to the parish school and who ain’t good enough for the Miss Warmingtons? There’s heaps of new people always coming here. And you’re so clever at teaching.” Mr. Tetteridge, halting suddenly, stretched out his hand; and Anthony, taking his from underneath him, they shook. “Thanks awfully,” said Mr. Tetteridge. “Do you know I’d never thought of that.” “I shouldn’t say anything about it if I was you,” counselled Anthony, “or somebody else might slip in and do it before you were ready.” “We say, ‘if I were you’; not ‘if I was you,’” Mr. Tetteridge corrected him. “We’ll take the subjunctive mood tomorrow. It’s quite easy to remember.” Again he stretched out his hand. “It’s awfully good of you,” he said. “I’d like you not to go away from Millsborough,” answered Anthony.