So one day I found myself sitting in a mood of considerable astonishment
in Kensington Gardens, reacting on a recent heated interview with the
school Registrar in which I had displayed more spirit than sense. I was
astonished chiefly at my stupendous falling away from all the militant
ideals of unflinching study I had brought up from Wimblehurst. I had
displayed myself, as the Registrar put it, "an unmitigated rotter." My
failure to get marks in the written examination had only been equalled
by the insufficiency of my practical work.
"I ask you," the Registrar had said, "what will become of you when your
scholarship runs out?"
It certainly was an interesting question. What was going to become of
me?
It was clear there would be nothing for me in the schools as I had once
dared to hope; there seemed, indeed, scarcely anything in the world
except an illpaid assistantship in some provincial organized Science
School or grammar school. I knew that for that sort of work, without
a degree or any qualification, one earned hardly a bare living and had
little leisure to struggle up to anything better.
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