Baxter raised his head, and I noticed that he seemed to have grown many years older. "I fear you have done me an ill service, sir," he said. "Unintentionally, of course!" he hastened to add. "In what way?" "I cannot accept the Council's invitation." "Why not? I'll have you fit and well by Saturday." "It's not that, sir. I cannot do it." "Why not?" "Because--because I happen to be an impostor!" "Oh, come! You must not take things too much to heart. A man can be a sound scholar without knowing very much about Greek or German." "It's not that, sir." "What, then?" "I can neither read nor write." VI I mixed a glass of weak whiskey and water, and made him drink it. Presently he began to talk--in a low voice, with pauses for breath; but after a while with a flicker of his old graciousness and dignity. "The late Archdeacon, sir, used to observe that a man should have no secrets from his banker, his lawyer, or his doctor. (He had a great many from all three, but no matter!) I have no banker, and no lawyer; but I have a doctor--a very kind doctor--and I am going to tell him something which it is only fair he should know. "I was born before the days of Free Education. I was earning my living in the streets of London when Mr. Forster brought in the Bill of Eighteen Seventy. My circumstances were extremely humble. I passed the first years of my life on a canal barge. (My uncle steered the barge. I think he was my uncle.) It is difficult to educate children so reared. They have no permanent place of abode; no particular school-district is responsible for such little vagrants. So I grew up illiterate. My uncle died. I earned my living as best I could. I was strong and active: I engaged in tasks which demanded no knowledge of letters. I learned to cipher a little in my head and to read the ordinary numerals: but the alphabet remained a mystery to me." "Why did you not learn to read and write?" "I did try. At the age of twenty I determined to master my ignorance. I purchased a primer, and endeavoured to teach myself. But that task was hopeless. I entered a night-school--and they asked me what I wished to study. Languages--Mathematics--Science--Engineering? How could I, a great grown man, tell them that I wanted to learn to read and write? I hurried out of the building. "Then I married. I married a woman as unlettered as myself. Whom else could I ask? We were happy together, in our humble way. But we had few associates, and such as we had possessed all our ignorance and none of our aspirations." "Had you children?" "One daughter--Ada's mother. You may depend upon it we sent _her_ to school! And she learnt quickly--far too quickly for me. I had cherished a hope that my child and I might commence our education together. But how could the muscle-bound intellect of an illiterate of thirty keep pace with the nimble wits of a sharp little girl?"