I
I am of the opinion that, after the age of twenty-one, a man ought not to be out of and at four in the morning. The hour thought. At twenty-one, life being all future, it may be with impunity. But, at thirty, having an mixture of and past, it is a thing to be looked at only when the sun is high and the world full of and optimism.
This came to me as I returned to my rooms after the Fletchers' ball. The was as I let myself in. The air was with the of a London winter morning. The houses looked and untenanted. A past, and across the a black cat, moving along the pavement, gave an additional touch of to the scene.
I shivered. I was and hungry, and the after the of the night had left me dispirited.
I was to be married. An hour I had to Cynthia Drassilis. And I can say that it had come as a great to me.
Why had I done it? Did I love her? It was so difficult to love: and the that I was attempting the was an answer to the question. Certainly I had to do so five years ago when I had loved Audrey Blake. I had let myself be on from day to day in a of trance, to be happy, without my happiness. But I was five years then, and Audrey was—Audrey.
I must Audrey, for she in her turn Cynthia.
I have no my when I met Audrey Blake. Nature had me the of a pig, and had to on Nature's work. I loved comfort, and I to have it. From the moment I came of age and my of the of my money, I myself in as in a garment. I in egoism. In fact, if, my twenty-first and my twenty-fifth birthdays, I had one thought, or did one action, my memory is a blank on the point.
It was at the of this period that I to Audrey. Now that I can her and see myself, impartially, as I was in those days, I can how I must have been. My love was real, but that did not prevent its being an insult. I was King Cophetua. If I did not actually say in so many words, 'This beggar-maid shall be my queen', I said it and often in my manner. She was the of a dissolute, evil-tempered artist I had met at a Bohemian club. He a by painting an occasional picture, an occasional magazine-story, but mainly by doing work. A of a Infants' Food, not satisfied with the that Baby Cried For It, would it necessary to push the home to the public through the medium of Art, and Mr Blake would be to the picture. A good many of his work in this were to be in the pages of the magazines.
A man may make a by these means, but it is one that him to jump at a son-in-law. Mr Blake jumped at me. It was one of his last on this earth. A week after he had—as I now suspect—bullied Audrey into me, he died of pneumonia.
His death had results. It the wedding: it me to a very of patronage, for with the of the bread-winner the only in my Cophetua had vanished: and it gave Audrey a great more scope than she had been for the of free will in the choice of a husband.
This last of the was to my notice, which till then it had escaped, by a from her, to me one night at the club, where I was coffee and on the of life in this best of all possible worlds.
It was and to the point. She had been married that morning.
To say that that moment was a point in my life would be to use a phrase. It my life. In a it killed me. The man I had been died that night, regretted, I imagine, by few. Whatever I am today, I am not the of life that I had been that night.
I the in my hand, and sat at it, my in about my ears, to with the that, in a best of all possible worlds, money will not everything.
I remember, as I sat there, a man, a acquaintance, a from I had many a time, came and settled me and to talk. He was a small man, but he a voice to which one had to listen. He talked and talked and talked. How I him, as I sat trying to think through his of words. I see now that he saved me. He me out of myself. But at the time he me. I was and bleeding. I was to the incredible. I had taken Audrey's for granted. She was the natural to my of comfort. I wanted her; I had and was satisfied with her, therefore all was well. And now I had to my mind to the that I had her.
Her was a in which I saw myself. She said little, but I understood, and my self-satisfaction was in ribbons—and something than self-satisfaction. I saw now that I loved her as I had not myself of loving.
And all the while this man talked and talked.
I have a that speech, in, is more in times of trouble than sympathy. Up to a point it almost endurance; but, that point past, it soothes. At least, it was so in my case. Gradually I myself him less. Soon I to listen, then to answer. Before I left the that night, the frenzy, in which I have been of anything, had gone from me, and I walked home, weak and helpless, but calm, to the new life.
Three years passed I met Cynthia. I those years in many countries. At last, as one is to do, I to London, and settled again to a life which, superficially, was much the same as the one I had in the days I Audrey. My old circle in London had been wide, and I it easy to up threads. I new friends, among them Cynthia Drassilis.
I liked Cynthia, and I was sorry for her. I think that, about that time I met her, I was sorry for most people. The of Audrey's had had that upon me. It is always the who religion most at the camp-meeting, and in my case 'getting religion' had taken the of of self. I have been able to do by halves, or with a moderation. As an I had been in my egoism; and now, having that out of me, I myself of an almost with the of other people.
I was sorry for Cynthia Drassilis. Meeting her mother frequently, I fail to be. Mrs Drassilis was a of a type I disliked. She was a widow, who had been left with what she means, and her on life was a of and querulousness. Sloane Square and South Kensington are full of in her situation. Their position that of the Ancient Mariner. 'Water, water everywhere, and not a to drink.' For 'water' in their case 'money'. Mrs Drassilis was with money on all sides, but only obtain it in and minute quantities. Any one of a dozen relations-in-law could, if they had wished, have her without it. But they did not so wish. They of Mrs Drassilis. In their opinion the Hon. Hugo Drassilis had married him—not so him as to make the thing a to be in and thought, but to them to his wife his lifetime and almost to his after his death. Hugo's brother, the Earl of Westbourne, had liked the beautiful, but second-rate, of a Hugo had presented to the family one as his bride. He that, by the from Hugo's life-insurance and Cynthia to the family seat once a year her childhood, he had done all that be of him in the matter.
He had not. Mrs Drassilis a great more of him, the non-receipt of which had her temper, her looks, and the peace of mind of all who had anything much to do with her.
It used to me when I people, as I occasionally have done, speak of Cynthia as hard. I her so myself, though she had to make her so, to me she was always a sympathetic, friend.
Ours was a almost by sex. Our minds so into one another that I had no to in love. I her too well. I had no to make about her. Her honest, had always been open to me to read. There was none of that curiosity, that of something that makes for love. We had a point of which neither of us to pass.
Yet at the Fletchers' I asked Cynthia to me, and she consented.
* * * * *
Looking back, I can see that, though the was Mr Tankerville Gifford, it was Audrey who was responsible. She had me human, of sympathy, and it was sympathy, primarily, that me to say what I said that night.
But the was Mr Gifford.
I at Marlow Square, where I was to up Cynthia and her mother, a little late, and Mrs Drassilis, and overdressed, in the drawing-room with a sleek-haired, man to me as Tankerville Gifford—to his intimates, of I was not one, and in the personal paragraphs of the weeklies, as 'Tanky'. I had him at restaurants. Once, at the Empire, somebody had me to him; but, as he had not been at the moment, he had missed any my might have him. Like else who moves about in London, I all about him. To him up, he was a most little cad, and, if the drawing-room had not been Mrs Drassilis's, I should have at him in it.
Mrs Drassilis us.
'I think we have already met,' I said.
He glassily.
'Don't remember.'
I was not surprised.
At this moment Cynthia came in. Out of the of my I a look of come into Tanky's at her at me.
I had her looking better. She is a tall girl, who herself magnificently. The of her dress an added from with the rank of her mother's. She black, a colour which set off to the clear white of her skin and her pale-gold hair.
'You're late, Peter,' she said, looking at the clock.
'I know. I'm sorry.'
'Better be pushing, what?' Tanky.
'My cab's waiting.'
'Will you ring the bell, Mr Gifford?' said Mrs Drassilis. 'I will tell Parker to for another.'
'Take me in yours,' I a voice in my ear.
I looked at Cynthia. Her had not changed. Then I looked at Tanky Gifford, and I understood. I had that stuffed-fish look on his before—on the occasion when I had been to him at the Empire.
'If you and Mr Gifford will take my cab,' I said to Mrs Drassilis, 'we will follow.'
Mrs Drassilis the motion. I that the note in her voice was on Tanky, but it out like a to me.
'I am in no hurry,' she said. 'Mr Gifford, will you take Cynthia?
I will with Mr Burns. You will meet Parker on the stairs.
Tell him to call another cab.'
As the door closed them, she on me like a many-coloured snake.
'How can you be so tactless, Peter?' she cried.
'You're a perfect fool. Have you no eyes?'
'I'm sorry,' I said.
'He's to her.'
'I'm sorry.'
'What do you mean?'
'Sorry for her.'
She to herself together her dress. Her glittered. My mouth very dry, and my was to thump. We were angry. It was a moment that had been for years, and we it. For my part I was that it had come. On on which one it is a to speak one's mind.
'Oh!' she said at last. Her voice quivered. She was at her self-control as it from her. 'Oh! And what is my to you, Mr Burns!'
'A great friend.'
'And I you think it to try to her chances?'
'If Mr Gifford is a sample of them—yes.'
'What do you mean?'
She choked.
'I see. I understand. I am going to put a stop to this once and for all. Do you hear? I have noticed it for a long time. Because I have you the of the house, and allowed you to come in and out as you pleased, like a cat, you presume—'
'Presume—' I prompted.
'You come here and in Cynthia's way. You on the that you have us all this time to her attention. You her chances. You—'
The Parker entered to say that the was at the door.
We to the Fletchers' house in silence. The spell had been broken. Neither of us that first, fine, careless which had us through the opening of the conflict, and of the on a less plane was impossible. It was that period of calm, the rounds, and we it to the full.
When I the a was just finishing. Cynthia, a in black, was dancing with Tanky Gifford. They were opposite me when the music stopped, and she of me over his shoulder.
She herself and moved me.
'Take me away,' she said under her breath. 'Anywhere. Quick.'
It was no time to the of the ballroom. Tanky, at his loneliness, by his to be to his mind to on the matter. A making for the door cut us off from him, and them, we passed out.
Neither of us spoke till we had the little room where I had meditated.
She sat down. She was looking and tired.
'Oh, dear!' she said.
I understood. I to see that in the cab, those dances, those terrible between-dances …
It was very sudden.
I took her hand. She to me with a smile. There were in her …
I myself speaking …
She was looking at me, her shining. All the to have gone out of them.
I looked at her.
There was something missing. I had it when I was speaking. To me my voice had had no ring of conviction. And then I saw what it was. There was no mystery. We each other too well. Friendship kills love.
She put my into words.
'We have always been and sister,' she said doubtfully.
'Till tonight.'
'You have tonight? You want me?'
Did I? I to put the question to myself and answer it honestly. Yes, in a sense, I had tonight. There was an added of her fineness, a of that of and which I had always for her. I wanted with all my to help her, to take her away from her surroundings, to make her happy. But did I want her in the in which she had used the word? Did I want her as I had wanted Audrey Blake? I away from the question. Audrey to the past, but it to think of her.
Was it I was five years older now than when I had wanted Audrey that the fire had gone out of me?
I my mind against my doubts.
'I have tonight,' I said.
And I and her.
I was of being against somebody. And then I that the somebody was myself.
I myself out a cup of coffee from the which
Smith, my man, had against my return. It put life into me.
The lifted.
And yet there something that for uneasiness, a of at the of my mind.
I had taken a step in the dark, and I was for Cynthia. I had to give her happiness. Was I that I succeed? The of had left me, and I to doubt.
Audrey had taken from me something that I not recover—poetry was as near as I to a of it. Yes, poetry. With Cynthia my would always be on the solid earth. To the end of the chapter we should be friends and nothing more.
I myself Cynthia intensely. I saw her a series of years of dullness. She was too good to be for life to a like myself.
I more coffee and my mood changed. Even in the of a winter a man of thirty, in excellent health, cannot to himself for long as a piece of junk, if he himself with coffee.
My mind its balance. I laughed at myself as a fraud. Of I make her happy. No man and woman had been more to each other. As for that disaster, which I had been into a life-tragedy, what of it? An of my boyhood. A which—I rose with the of doing so at once—I should now to from my life.
I to my desk, it, and took out a photograph.
And then—undoubtedly four o'clock in the is no time for a man to try to be single-minded and decisive—I wavered. I had to tear the thing in pieces without a glance, and it into the wastepaper-basket. But I took the and I hesitated.
The girl in the photograph was small and slight, and she looked out of the picture with large that met and mine. How well I them, those Irish-blue under their expressive, brows. How the had that half-wistful, half-impudent look, the tilted, the mouth into a smile.
In a all my had upon me. Was this sentimentalism, a four-in-the-morning to the of the years, or did she my and over it so that no enter in and her place?
I had no answer, unless the that I replaced the photograph in its was one. I that this thing not be now. It was more difficult than I had thought.
All my had returned by the time I was in bed. Hours to pass while I for sleep.
When I my last was still clear in my mind.
It was a that, come what might, if those Irish eyes
were to me till my death, I would play the game with
Cynthia.
II
The telephone just as I was to call at Marlow Square and Mrs Drassilis of the position of affairs. Cynthia, I imagined, would have the news already, which would the of the to some extent; but the of my last night's with Mrs Drassilis me from looking with any to the of meeting her again.
Cynthia's voice me as I the receiver.
'Hullo, Peter! Is that you? I want you to come here at once.'
'I was just starting,' I said.
'I don't Marlow Square. I'm not there. I'm at the Guelph. Ask for Mrs Ford's suite. It's very important. I'll tell you all about it when you here. Come as soon as you can.'
My rooms were for visits to the Hotel Guelph. A walk of a of minutes took me there. Mrs Ford's was on the third floor. I the and Cynthia opened the door to me.
'Come in,' she said. 'You're a dear to be so quick.'
'My rooms are only just the corner.' She the door, and for the time we looked at one another. I not say that I was nervous, but there was certainly, to me, a something in the atmosphere. Last night a long way off and somehow a little unreal. I I must have this in my manner, for she what had to a pause by a little laugh. 'Peter,' she said, 'you're embarrassed.' I the warmly, but without conviction. I was embarrassed. 'Then you ought to be,' she said. 'Last night, when I was looking my very best in a dress, you asked me to you. Now you see me again in cold blood, and you're how you can out of it without my feelings.'
I smiled. She did not. I to smile. She was looking at me in a very manner.
'Peter,' she said, 'are you sure?'
'My dear old Cynthia,' I said, 'what's the with you?'
'You are sure?' she persisted.
'Absolutely, sure.' I had a of two large looking at me out of a photograph. It came and in a flash.
I Cynthia.
'What of you have,' I said. 'It's a to it up.' She was not responsive. 'You're in a very mood today, Cynthia,' I on. 'What's the matter?'
'I've been thinking.'
'Out with it. Something has gone wrong.' An idea upon me.
'Er—has your mother—is your mother very angry about—'
'Mother's delighted. She always liked you, Peter.'
I had the self-restraint to check a grin.
'Then what is it?' I said. 'Tired after the dance?'
'Nothing as as that.'
'Tell me.'
'It's so difficult to put it into words.'
'Try.'
She was playing with the papers on the table, her away. For a moment she did not speak.
'I've been myself, Peter,' she said at last. 'You are so and unselfish. You're quixotic. It's that that is me. Are you marrying me just you're sorry for me? Don't speak. I can tell you now if you will just let me say out what's in my mind. We have each other for two years now. You know all about me. You know how—how I am at home. Are you marrying me just you me and want to take me out of all that?'
'My dear girl!'
'You haven't answered my question.'
'I answered it two minutes ago when you asked me if—'
'You do love me?'
'Yes.'
All this time she had been her averted, but now she and looked into my with an which, I confess, me. Her me more.
'Peter, do you love me as much as you loved Audrey Blake?'
In the which her from my reply my mind and thither, trying to an occasion when I have mentioned Audrey to her. I was that I had not done so. I mentioned Audrey to anyone.
There is a of in the most level-headed man. I am not particularly level-headed, and I have more than a in me. I was shaken. Ever since I had asked Cynthia to me, it as if the of Audrey had come into my life.
'Good Lord!' I cried. 'What do you know of Audrey Blake?'
She her away again.
'Her name to affect you very strongly,' she said quietly.
I myself.
'If you ask an old soldier,' I said, 'he will tell you that a wound, long after it has healed, is to give you an occasional twinge.'
'Not if it has healed.'
'Yes, when it has healed—when you can how you were to it.'
She said nothing.
'How did you about—it?' I asked.
'When I met you, or soon after, a friend of yours—we to be talking about you—told me that you had been to be married to a girl named Audrey Blake. He was to have been your best man, he said, but one day you and told him there would be no wedding, and then you disappeared; and nobody saw you again for three years.'
'Yes,' I said: 'that is all true.'
'It to have been a affair, Peter. I mean—the of thing a man would it hard to forget.'
I to smile, but I that I was not doing it well. It was me extraordinarily, this of Audrey.
'A man would it almost impossible,' I said, 'unless he had a memory.'
'I didn't that. You know what I by forget.'
'Yes,' I said, 'I do.'
She came to me and took me by the shoulders, looking into my face.
'Peter, can you say you have her—in the sense
I mean?'
'Yes,' I said.
Again that over me—that of being against myself.
'She not us?'
'No,' I said.
I the the word. It was as if some part of me were to keep it back.
'Peter!'
There was a soft on her face; as she it to mine I put my arms around her.
She away with a little laugh. Her whole manner had changed. She was a different being from the girl who had looked so into my a moment before.
'Oh, my dear boy, how you are! You've me. I you used to be at football, like Mr Broster.'
I did not reply at once. I cannot up the and put them on their directly I have no use for them. I slowly myself to the new key of the conversation.
'Who's Broster?' I asked at length.
'He used to be to'—she me and pointed—'to that.'
I had a picture on one of the chairs when I entered the room but had taken no particular notice of it. I now gave it a closer glance. It was a portrait, very done, of a child of about ten or eleven years old.
Was he, chap! Well, we all have our troubles, don't we! Who is this thug! Not a friend of yours, I hope?'
'That is Ogden, Mrs Ford's son. It's a tragedy—'
'Perhaps it doesn't do him justice. Does he like that, or is it just the artist's imagination?'
'Don't make fun of it. It's the of that boy that is breaking
Nesta's heart.'
I was shocked.
'Is he dead? I'm sorry. I wouldn't for the world—'
'No, no. He is alive and well. But he is to her. The gave him into the of his father.'
'The court?'
'Mrs Ford was the wife of Elmer Ford, the American millionaire.
They were a year ago.'
'I see.'
Cynthia was at the portrait.
'This boy is a in his way,' she said. 'They call him "The Little Nugget" in America.'
'Oh! Why is that?'
'It's a the have for him. Ever so many have been to him.'
She stopped and looked at me oddly.
'I one today, Peter,' she said. I to the country, where the boy was, and him.'
'Cynthia! What on earth do you mean?'
'Don't you understand? I did it for Nesta's sake. She was her about not being able to see him, so I and him away, and him here.'
I do not know if I was looking as as I felt. I not, for I as if my brain were way. The perfect with which she spoke of this added to my confusion.
'You're joking!'
'No; I him.'
'But, good heavens! The law! It's a penal offence, you know!'
'Well, I did it. Men like Elmer Ford aren't fit to have of a child. You don't know him, but he's just an financier, without a above money. To think of a boy up in that atmosphere—at his most age. It means death to any good there is in him.'
My mind was still with the legal of the affair.
'But, Cynthia, kidnapping's kidnapping, you know! The law doesn't take any notice of motives. If you're caught—'
She cut through my babble.
'Would you have been to do it, Peter?'
'Well—' I began. I had not the point before.
'I don't you would. If I asked you to do it for my sake—'
'But, Cynthia, kidnapping, you know! It's such an low-down game.'
'I played it. Do you me?'
I perspired. I think of no other reply.
'Peter,' she said, 'I your scruples. I know how you feel. But can't you see that this is different from the of you naturally look on as horrible? It's just taking a boy away from that must him, to his mother, who him. It's not wrong. It's splendid.'
She paused.
'You will do it for me, Peter?' she said.
'I don't understand,' I said feebly. 'It's done. You've him yourself.'
'They him and took him back. And now I want you to try.' She came closer to me. 'Peter, don't you see what it will to me if you agree to try? I'm only human, I can't help, at the of my heart, still being a little of this Audrey Blake. No, don't say anything. Words can't me; but if you do this thing for me, I shall be satisfied. I shall know.'
She was close me, my arm and looking into my face. That of the of which had me since that moment at the came over me with intensity. Life had to be a grey, in which day succeeded day and without event. Its had up into rapids, and I was being away on them.
'Will you do it, Peter? Say you will.'
A voice, mine, answered 'Yes'.
'My dear old boy!'
She pushed me into a chair, and, on the arm of it, her hand on mine and of a business-like.
'Listen,' she said, 'I'll tell you what we have arranged.'
It was in upon me, as she to do so, that she appeared from the very to have been that that part of her plans, my to the scheme, be upon as something of a certainty. Women have these intuitions.
III
Looking back, I think I can the point at which this I had to be a dream, from which I that I might waken, and took shape as a of the future. That moment came when I met Mr Arnold Abney by at his club.
Till then the whole enterprise had been visionary. I from Cynthia that the boy Ogden was to be sent to a school, and that I was to myself into this and, my opportunity, to remove him; but it to me that the to this were insuperable. In the place, how were we to which of England's Mr Ford, or Mr Mennick for him, would choose? Secondly, the plot which was to me into this when—or if—found, me as thin. I was to pose, Cynthia told me, as a man of private means, to learn the business, with a view to setting up a of his own. The to that was, I held, that I did not want to do anything of the sort. I had not the of a man with such an ambition. I had none of the of such a man.
I put it to Cynthia.
'They would me out in a day,' I her. 'A man who wants to set up a has got to be a of fellow. I don't know anything.'
'You got your degree.'
'A degree. At any rate, I've all I knew.'
'That doesn't matter. You have the money. Anybody with money can start a school, if he doesn't know a thing. Nobody would think it strange.'
It me as a on our system, but told me it was true. The of a school, if he is a man of wealth, need not be able to teach, any more than an need be able to plays.
'Well, we'll pass that for the moment,' I said. 'Here's the difficulty. How are you going to out the Mr Ford has chosen?'
'I have it out already—or Nesta has. She set a to work. It was perfectly easy. Ogden's going to Mr Abney's. Sanstead House is the name of the place. It's in Hampshire somewhere. Quite a small school, but full of little and and things. Lord Mountry's brother, Augustus Beckford, is there.'
I had Lord Mountry and his family well some years ago. I Augustus dimly.
'Mountry? Do you know him? He was up at Oxford with me.'
She interested.
'What of a man is he?' she asked.
'Oh, a good sort. Rather an ass. I haven't him for years.'
'He's a friend of Nesta's. I've only met him once. He is going to be your reference.'
'My what?'
'You will need a reference. At least, I you will. And, anyhow, if you say you know Lord Mountry it will make it for you with Mr Abney, the being at the school.'
'Does Mountry know about this business? Have you told him why I want to go to Abney's?'
'Nesta told him. He it was very of you. He will tell Mr Abney anything we like. By the way, Peter, you will have to pay a premium or something, I suppose. But Nesta will look after all expenses, of course.'
On this point I my only of the afternoon.
'No,' I said; 'it's very of her, but this is going to be an performance. I'm doing this for you, and I'll the racket. Good heavens! Fancy taking money for a job of this kind!'
She looked at me oddly.
'That is very sweet of you, Peter,' she said, after a pause. 'Now let's to work.'
And together we the which to my sitting, two days later, in at his with Mr Arnold Abney, M.A., of Sanstead House, Hampshire.
Mr Abney proved to be a long, suave, man with an Oxford manner, a high forehead, thin white hands, a intonation, and a air of importance, as of one in with the Great. There was in his something of the family in confide, and something of the private at the Castle.
He gave me the key-note to his in the minute of our acquaintanceship. We had seated ourselves at a table in the smoking-room when an past, a in transit. My to his almost convulsively, returned the salutation, and slowly into his chair again.
'The Duke of Devizes,' he said in an undertone. 'A most able man. Most able. His nephew, Lord Ronald Stokeshaye, was one of my pupils. A boy.'
I that the old still to some in Mr Abney's bosom.
We came to business.
'So you wish to be one of us, Mr Burns, to enter the profession?'
I to look as if I did.
'Well, in circumstances, the in which I—ah—myself, I may say, am situated, there is no more occupation. The work is interesting. There is the of these fresh develop—and of helping them to develop—under one's eyes; in any case, I may say, there is the of being in a position to the minds of who will some day take their place among the country's legislators, that little of men who, despite the of demagogues, still do their share, and more, in the of England's fortunes. Yes.'
He paused. I said I so, too.
'You are an Oxford man, Mr Burns, I think you told me? Ah, I have your here. Just so. You were at—ah, yes. A college. The Dean is a friend of mine. Perhaps you my late pupil, Lord Rollo?—no, he would have been since your time. A boy. Quite … And you took your degree? Exactly. And the at and Rugby football? Excellent. Mens in—ah—corpore, in fact, sano, yes!'
He the and replaced it in his pocket.
'Your object in to me, Mr Burns, is, I gather, to learn the—ah—the ropes, the business? You have had little or no previous of school-mastering?'
'None whatever.'
'Then your best plan would be to and work for a time as an ordinary assistant-master. You would thus a knowledge of the of the which would you in good when you decide to set up your own school. School-mastering is a profession, which cannot be in practice. "Only those who—ah—brave its its mystery." Yes, I would you to at the of the and go, at least for a time, through the mill.'
'Certainly,' I said. 'Of course.'
My pleased him. I see that he was relieved. I think he had me to at the of work.
'As it happens,' he said, 'my master left me at the end of last term. I was about to go to the Agency for a when your arrived. Would you consider—'
I had to think this over. Feeling Mr Arnold Abney, I to do him as little as possible. I was going to him of a boy, who, while no of his mind make him into a legislator, did a of Mr Abney's income; and I did not want to my by being a assistant-master. Then I that, if I was no Jowett, at least I Latin and Greek to teach the of those to small boys. My was satisfied.
'I should be delighted,' I said.
'Excellent. Then let us that as—ah—settled,' said Mr
Abney.
There was a pause. My to a little with an ash-tray. I what was the matter, and then it came to me. We were about to sordid. The of terms was upon us.
And as I this, I saw how I one more to my conscience. After all, the whole thing was a question of hard cash. By Ogden I should be taking money from Mr Abney. By paying my premium I should be it to him.
I the circumstances. Ogden was now about thirteen years old. The preparatory-school age limit may be at fourteen. That is to say, in any event Sanstead House only him for one year. Mr Abney's fees I had to at. To be on the safe side, I my premium at an figure, and, to the point at once, I named it.
It was satisfactory. My had done me credit. Mr Abney upon me. Over tea and we very friendly. In an hour I more of the of school-mastering than I had existed.
We said good-bye at the door. He at me from the top of the steps.
'Good-bye, Mr Burns, good-bye,' he said. 'We shall meet at—ah—Philippi.'
When I my rooms, I for Smith.
'Smith,' I said, 'I want you to some books for me thing tomorrow. You had take a note of them.'
He his pencil.
'A Latin Grammar.'
'Yes, sir.'
'A Greek Grammar.'
'Yes, sir.'
'Brodley Arnold's Easy Prose Sentences.'
'Yes, sir.'
'And Caesar's Gallic Wars.'
'What name, sir?'
'Caesar.'
'Thank you, sir. Anything else, sir?'
'No, that will be all.'
'Very good, sir.'
He from the room.
Thank goodness, Smith always has me mad, and is at anything I ask him to do.
