You’re taking this very well, my boy. Very well indeed…

““You’re taking this very well, my boy. Very well indeed. You’re taking it like a man. I confess I expected arguments, even tantrums.” “Well, it is a disappointment,” said Clovis, wondering whether to break down and cry, a thing all actors learn to do at the drop of a hat. But in the end he just gave a brave gulp instead. “I had, of course, been looking forward…” He looked out of the window to where the Basher, mounted on a bruising chestnut, was galloping across a field. “But I do understand. One must always think of Westwood.” Sir Aubrey nodded. “You’re a good lad. Of course no one will ever take Dudley’s place, but…” He took out his handkerchief and blew into it fiercely. “There’s another thing. About your schooling. Bernard was very weedy about his school, but then Bernard was weedy about everything. All the same, I think you’re a bit old to be sent away now. Boys usually leave home at about seven or eight, you know, and you’d feel out of it. So I’m going to engage a tutor for you. He’ll come next month when you’re settled in.” “Thank you, sir,” said Clovis. And then: “I’m afraid I’m not very clever.” Sir Aubrey looked shocked. “Good heavens, boy, I should hope not! The Taverners have never been bookish. Except your poor father, and look what happened to him.””

— Eva Ibbotson