After that interview and when the boy had left the room--shambled out of the room in that sullen, aggrieved air he would always assume under correction--after that she and Harry had talked, most fondly. It was all, the talk, that poignantly affecting “fresh start” business that he’d begun with Huggo. Poignantly affecting because Harry, piling upon his love for Huggo and his pride in Huggo, which she shared, his love for his old school and his pride in it, which she could understand but could not share, had been so bravely, cheerfully earnest and assured about the future. “One who never turned his back but marched breast forward.” The boy would be all right. Mice and Mumps, old lady, he’d be all right! It was just a mistake, just a side-slip. He’d got the right stuff in him, Huggo had, eh, old lady? They must just pull together to help the boy, eh? He paused the tiniest space at that and pressed her hand and looked at her. She knew his meaning. If only.... He went on: This was a good place, this tutor’s down in Norfolk they were sending him to, Harry was sure it was. It was a pity, of course, he couldn’t go to another public school; but of course he couldn’t; they wouldn’t take him; no use worrying about that. This tutor, this man they were sending him to, was a first-class chap. Only took six pupils. Was a clergyman. Understood boys and youths who hadn’t quite held their own and wanted special coaching and attention. Huggo was keen on the idea. After all, why shouldn’t he have disliked Tidborough? There were such boys who didn’t like public-school life. There, there! Perhaps it was the best thing that could have happened. Bet your life this was going to be the making of old Huggo, this change. This tutor and the quiet, self-reliant life there, each chap with his own jolly little bed-sitting room, would prop him up and get him into Oxford when the time came and make him no end happy and splendid. “There, there, old lady,” said Harry, and patted her and kissed her (she’d been affected). “There, there, it’s going to be fine. The rest is just up to us, eh? We know the boy’s weaknesses. We know what Hammond’s told us about him--home life and home influences and all that stuff, and that’s easy; we’ll see the boy gets that, won’t we?” She used to wring her hands at that, and crying “If only!” cry again in desperation of excuse: “If only the war hadn’t come! If only the war hadn’t come!”