During tea the parlour began, to accustom itself to a new vocabulary, containing such words as 'fellows,' 'kept in,'m' lines,' 'rot,' 'recess,' 'jolly.' To some of these words the parents, especially Mr. Povey, had an instinct to object, but they could not object, somehow they did not seem to get an opportunity to object; they were carried away on the torrent, and after all, their excitement and pleasure in the exceeding romantic novelty of existence were just as intense and nearly as ingenuous as their son's. He demonstrated that unless he was allowed to stay up later than aforetime he would not be able to do his home-work, and hence would not keep that place in the school to which his talents entitled him. Mr. Povey suggested, but only with half a heart, that he should get up earlier in the morning. The proposal fell flat. Everybody knew and admitted that nothing save the scorpions of absolute necessity, or a tremendous occasion such as that particular morning's, would drive Cyril from his bed until the smell of bacon rose to him from the kitchen. The parlour table was consecrated to his lessons. It became generally known that 'Cyril was doing his lessons.' His father scanned the new text-books while Cyril condescendingly explained to him that all others were superseded and worthless. His father contrived to maintain an air of preserving his mental equilibrium, but not his mother; she gave it up, she who till that day had under his father's direction taught him nearly all that he knew, and Cyril passed above her into regions of knowledge where she made no pretence of being able to follow him. When the lessons were done, and Cyril had wiped his fingers on bits of blotting-paper, and his father had expressed qualified approval and had gone into the shop, Cyril said to his mother, with that delicious hesitation which overtook him sometimes: "Mother." "Well, my pet." "I want you to do something for me." "Well, what is it?" "No, you must promise." "I'll do it if I can." "But you CAN. It isn't doing. It's NOT doing." "Come, Cyril, out with it." "I don't want you to come in and look at me after I'm asleep any more." "But, you silly boy, what difference can it make to you if you're asleep?" "I don't want you to. It's like as if I was a baby. You'll have to stop doing it some day, and so you may as well stop now." It was thus that he meant to turn his back on his youth. She smiled. She was incomprehensibly happy. She continued to smile. "Now you'll promise, won't you, mother?" She rapped him on the head with her thimble, lovingly. He took the gesture for consent. "You are a baby," she murmured. "Now I shall trust you," he said, ignoring this. "Say 'honour bright.'" "Honour bright."