all playing at?" Numerous forms in more or less advanced stages of nudity started like rabbits to their proper cubicles, while Moore bellowed in the doorway. If it had been anyone but Moore there would have been a row: but Moore was an angel and never did anything but shout. The lights were turned down and the voices died away.

Cullen took one lingering glance at Sally before he put her away and said his prayers: Neave, having ended his supplications, lay chuckling quietly in bed. Martin began to feel acutely miserable. In spite of all his hopes that the dormitory would bring him peace, he had only come across another door which had to be opened. There was no escape: he would have to find out, for he might be expected to join in one of these conversations and then he would be shown up. He would have to discover some decent new boy and question him tactfully. It would be embarrassing: it would be perfect hell: but it would be inevitable. He began to wish he was back in Devonshire, at home. God, how he loathed Life and Elfrey and Sally Savoy: he wanted ... but just when, in spite of the promptings of conscience, he was yielding to the soft embrace of sentiment and memory, sleep saved the situation.

II

It is one of the world's happiest phenomena that pessimism, by creating expectations gloomier far than any possible event, destroys by that very process its raison d'être. For Martin the future had, almost of necessity, to be brighter than its promise. He was pushed into his right place in chapel and found his way, without undue meandering, to the Lower Fifth classroom: he even appeased the Terror by his ability to explain the history of the genitive case in Greek. A schoolmaster's lot is hard enough without his making it worse, and the Terror sensibly seized any opportunity of investing his work with an element of real interest. With the bloods who found higher progress impossible and remained to clog the Lower Fifth, it was always routine: but Martin had come with a scholarship and was capable of an ingenious and tasteful turn in translation. He was obviously a boy in whom an interest could be taken, and the Terror warmed to him even to the extent of abandoning the sardonic humour on which he so prided himself. According to all the best traditions of scholastic fiction, Martin should have been unpopular for this reason, but as a matter of fact the bloods were far too bored with the Terror and all his works, and far too contemptuous of all clever kids and 'sweat-guts,' to take the least notice of what happened: or, if they did take notice, they were not going to give themselves away by showing it.

The collar problem had been the hardest to face, and Martin still longed eagerly for the Etons to arrive. As for the question of Neave, Cullen, and Sally Savoy, he found that here too his fears had been exaggerated. Most of the smaller boys did not talk on this subject: Neave and Cullen turned out to be remote and superior creatures: by their well-oiled hair and exquisite variety of ties and socks and handkerchiefs they revealed the majesty of their doggishness. But Martin was not prepared to run any risks: he became intimate with the most imposing of the new boys, one Caruth, and plied him with questions. He saw plainly that it was an ordeal which had to be gone through if he was ever to attain peace of mind, and consequently he bravely endured Caruth's surprise at the deficiencies in his knowledge. Martin had foolishly begun by hinting that he really knew a good deal and only wanted a few supplementary details, but he soon discovered that he was giving himself most terribly away. Then he broke down and confessed his ignorance.

"You are a kid," said Caruth. "You with your stick-ups!"

"Well, it's not my fault," protested Martin.

Thereupon Caruth became very patronising and talked to him at length, telling him much that was true and more that was false: he also gave information as to suitable passages in Shakespeare and the Bible for the confirmation of theory. At first Martin was sickened and disgusted by his investigations, but his sense of repulsion was soon outweighed by the consideration that another barrier had been broken down and that now he could join in conversation, if need be, without that gnawing fear of being shown up. Caruth had the decency not to betray Martin's ignorance to the other new boys.

Martin was in Berney's house. Berney's had a reputation for mediocrity—that is to say, it rarely won many challenge cups, and those which it did hold were gained more often by individuals than by teams. Berney's usually had some brilliant athletes, but it never succeeded in training good sides. Occasionally at the bidding of a conscientious prefect it made an effort; but its efforts were nearly always in vain. Berney's had a lofty contempt for pot-hunting, which the other houses of course attributed to jealousy. When Martin came to Berney's the house was in its usual state: two of the prefects, Jamieson and Parker, were very clever men but indifferent athletes: the other two, Moore and Leopard, were brilliant athletes and not at all clever. The house as a whole was listless and apathetic, and there was a healthy spirit of tolerance resulting in the formation of groups. There was a doggish group, which discussed socks and hair oil and other more exciting things, a young athletic group, a group of 'sweat-guts,' and a group of complete nullities. The new boys remained in a bunch until half-term and then began to drift to their appropriate circles. Martin, reasoning from certain conversations at his private school, had been afraid that the new boys might have a rough time. Nothing of the sort occurred. They were left very much alone and, as long as they put on no side, received quite reasonable treatment. In all his career at Elfrey Martin never saw a fight or a case of bullying: at times there would be a little playful ragging, and insolence usually met with its reward, but there was no systematic oppression. Above all, the 'sweat-guts,' though they might be laughed at now and then, were never persecuted.

At the end of this second week Martin received two invitations to supper. One was from Mrs Berney, the other from Mrs Foskett, the headmaster's wife. Mrs Berney's hospitality came first. Instead of going in to house tea and eating bread and butter and whatever else he chose to provide for himself, he went to the front part of the house with a clean collar (Eton by now) and hair 'sloshed' down with copious water. There he met Caruth and two others, all equally wet about the hair. They were fed with fried soles, cold tongue, meringues, tea, toast, and marmalade—not at all a bad business, thought Martin, and well worth the previous exertions of the toilet.

Mr Berney sat at the head of the table. He was a little, freckled man with a fair moustache: he had become a schoolmaster through despair and a housemaster through patience. His chief interest lay in natural history and botany, and he was never so happy as when he forgot all about the school and his house and tramped the surrounding country. He managed his house with a bare minimum of efficiency and was never loved and never hated. In the routine of teaching at school and administration at home he worked steadily, without mistakes and without enthusiasm. He said all that a housemaster ought to say about games and work and religion and moral tone without stopping to think whether it was desirable or even consistent, for he had long ago discovered that to start thinking would be to court anxiety, if not disaster. He lived, on the whole, for his holidays.

At the other end of the table was his wife, small and dark and interesting. She it was who ran the house, not because she liked it, but because she worshipped her husband and knew that he loathed responsibility. She was popular with the boys, who could pardon her complete inability to understand games (a heinous sin in a housemaster's wife) because of her unfailing kindness and