Peter had, in fancy, invented posts for himself that would tax to the fullest extent his complicated genius. He had lived a hundred lives. Nevertheless, bluntly asked whether he had thought about his future, he as bluntly answered "No," and knew in a moment that the answer was dreadfully true. His cloud cuckooland of battle and success, magnificent with pictures of himself in all the great attitudes of history, vanished at a simple question. He was rapidly growing old. The headmaster continued, pitilessly sensible. "I want you to go on with your education," he said. "You have done very well with us here. I have written to your father urging him to send you to the High School where it will be possible for you to qualify for the University. I want you, before you see your father, to make up your mind what you want to do." Peter left the headmaster's room with a sense of loss. The glamour had gone out of life. His future, vast and uncertain, had in a moment narrowed to a practical issue. Should he go on to another school, or into some office of the town? These were dreary alternatives. Already he was fifteen years old, and he had somehow to be the most famous man in the world within the next five years. Peter's father went that day to visit his brother-in-law. Henry Prout, Peter's uncle and godfather, had at this time retired from the retailing of hardware. He was wealthy, an alderman of the town, and a bachelor. He took a father's interest in his nephew. There was a tacit, very indefinite assumption that in all which nearly concerned his sister's son Henry had a right to be consulted. When Peter heard his father had gone round to his uncle's house he knew his career was that evening to be decided. Henry Prout was a copy in gross of his sister. Mrs. Paragon was queenly and fair. Henry was large and florid. Mrs. Paragon was amiable and full of peace. Henry was genial and lazy. Mrs. Paragon equably accepted life from a naturally perfect balance of character, Henry from a naturally perfect confidence in the inclinations of his rosy and abundant flesh. Uncle Henry had one large regret. He had had no education, and he greatly envied the people who had. His admiration for the results of education was really a part of his indolence. He admired the readiness and ease with which educated people disposed of problems which cost him painful efforts of the brain. Education was for Uncle Henry a royal way to the settlement of every difficult thing. If you had education, life was an arm-chair. If you had it not, life was a necessity to think things laboriously out for yourself. Uncle Henry had made up his mind that Peter should have the best education money could buy. Peter, he determined, should learn Greek. "Well, George," he said in his comfortable thick voice, "what's it going to be?" He was not yet alluding to Peter's career, but to some bottles on the little table between them. "Half and half," said George.