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could have expected, and presently he did little pictures of
his own. Mrs. Carey encouraged him. It was a good way to
keep him out of mischief, and later on his sketches would be
useful for bazaars. Two or three of them had been framed
and hung in his bed-room.
But one day, at the end of the morning’s work, Mr. Per-
kins stopped him as he was lounging out of the form-room.
‘I want to speak to you, Carey.’
Philip waited. Mr. Perkins ran his lean fingers through
his beard and looked at Philip. He seemed to be thinking
over what he wanted to say.
‘What’s the matter with you, Carey?’ he said abruptly.
Philip, flushing, looked at him quickly. But knowing him
well by now, without answering, he waited for him to go
on.
‘I’ve been dissatisfied with you lately. You’ve been slack
and inattentive. You seem to take no interest in your work.
It’s been slovenly and bad.’
‘I’m very sorry, sir,’ said Philip.
‘Is that all you have to say for yourself?’
Philip looked down sulkily. How could he answer that he
was bored to death?
‘You know, this term you’ll go down instead of up. I shan’t
give you a very good report.’
Philip wondered what he would say if he knew how the
report was treated. It arrived at breakfast, Mr. Carey glanced
at it indifferently, and passed it over to Philip.
‘There’s your report. You’d better see what it says,’ he
remarked, as he ran his fingers through the wrapper of a

1 Of Human Bondage