Chips said he hadn't thought of it like that—or, at least, not often. He did his best; that was all anyone could do in any job.
"Yes, of course, Chips. I do love you for saying simple things like that."
And one morning—another memory gem-clear when he turned to it —he had for some reason been afflicted with an acute desire to depreciate himself and all his attainments. He had told her of his only mediocre degree, of his occasional difficulties of discipline, of the certainty that he would never get a promotion, and of his complete ineligibility to marry a young and ambitious girl. And at the end of it all she had laughed in answer.
She had no parents and was married from the house of an aunt in Ealing. On the night before the wedding, when Chips left the house to return to his hotel, she said, with mock gravity: "This is an occasion, you know— this last farewell of ours. I feel rather like a new boy beginning his first term with you. Not scared, mind you—but just, for once, in a thoroughly respectful mood. Shall I call you 'sir'—or would 'Mr. Chips' be the right thing? 'Mr. Chips,' I think. Good-bye, then— good-bye, Mr. Chips..."
(A hansom clop-clopping in the roadway; green-pale gas lamps flickering on a wet pavement; newsboys shouting something about South Africa; Sherlock Holmes in Baker Street.)
"Good-bye, Mr. Chips..."
(๑♡⌓♡๑)(｡♡‿♡｡)(｡･ω･｡)ﾉ♡(´∩｡• ᵕ •｡∩`)(｡・//ε//・｡)(｡・//ε//・｡)(~￣³￣)~(~￣³￣)~(っ˘з(˘⌣˘ )(*＾3＾)/～♡(っ˘з(˘⌣˘ )( ˶ ❛ ꁞ ❛ ˶ )( ˶ ❛ ꁞ ❛ ˶ )(*˘︶˘*).｡*♡(●’3)♡(ε`●)(◕દ◕)(◕દ◕)(◕દ◕)(っ˘з(˘⌣˘ )(っ˘з(˘⌣˘ )(っ˘з(˘⌣˘ )(~￣³￣)~(~￣³￣)~(っ˘з(˘⌣˘ )(~￣³￣)~(｡・//ε//・｡)(◕દ◕)(｡・//ε//・｡)(｡・//ε//・｡)(◕દ◕)(◕દ◕)(●’3)♡(ε`●)(っ˘з(˘⌣˘ )(~￣³￣)~(~￣³￣)~(〃ﾟ3ﾟ〃)(◕દ◕)(~￣³￣)~(~￣³￣)~(｡・//ε//・｡)(｡・//ε//・｡)(｡・//ε//・｡)(｡・//ε//・｡)(｡・//ε//・｡)
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