My father had returned from his business visit to prefix = st1 /Londonwhen I came in, rather late for supper. I could tell at once that he and my mother had been discussing something. In that half-playful, half-serious way I knew so well, he said,"How would you like to go to Eton?" "You bet. " I cried quickly catching the joke. Everyone knew it was the most expensive, the most famous of schools. You should be entered at birth, if not before. I understood my father. He disliked any form of showing off. He always knew his proper station in life, which was in the middle of the middle class; our house was medium-sized; he had avoided joining Royal Liverpool Golf Club and went to a smaller one instead; though once he had got a second-hand Rolls-Royce at a remarkably low price, he felt embarrassed driving it, and quickly changed it for an Austin 1100. This could only be his delightful way of telling me that the whole boarding school idea was to be dropped. Alas! I should also have remembered that he had a liking for being different from everyone else, if it did not conflict with his fear of drawing attention to himself. It seemed that he had happened to be talking to Graham Brown of the London office, a very nice fellow, and Graham had a friend who had just entered his boy at the school, and while he was in that part of the world , my father thought he might just as well phone them. I remember my eyes stinging and my hands shaking with the puzzlement of my feelings. There was excitement, at the heart of great sadness. "Oh, he doesn't want to go away. " said my mother. "You shouldn't go on like this. " "It's up to him. " said my father. "He can make up his own mind." The house the writer's family lived in was  _  .
the best they could afford right for their social position built for showing off rather small