sympathy. She fed them well, as schools go, believed in culture, and used to gather select spirits to read poetry in her drawing-room.

Martin sat next to her and found her easy to talk to. She too was relieved, because she usually had to struggle with an athletic conversation, a prolonged torture in which she would cause horror and dismay by confusing half-backs and cover-points. But Martin could talk about books and even pictures: she became interested and forgot to dole out meringues, until, reminded by her husband, she looked up and saw with shame the expectant faces of her guests. Afterwards she took them to her comfortable drawing-room and talked on general school subjects: she kept them until she was certain that of this batch Martin alone had possibilities. Then she drove them to prep.

The Fosketts, as befitted a headmaster and his wife, were more formidable. To begin with, their hospitality involved, in addition to the clean collar and sloshed hair, the wearing of Sunday clothes and the completion of prep in odd moments. The six new boys at Berney's all went together, very timid and overwhelmed at the thought of being entertained by one so remote and so tremendous as the Head. He was not in their eyes so infinitely great as Llewelyn, the Captain of Football: but, distinctly, he counted.

Foskett was one of the new headmasters. He was young (Elfrey figured early in the cursus honorum of one who aspired to the greatest thrones), and he had declined to take holy orders. But, though fashionably sceptical about the hardest dogmas, he believed intensely in all the right things, in the Classics and the Empire and Moral Tone and the Educational Value of Athletics and Our Duty to the Poor and the Need for Personal Service. Consequently his name was already a byword with all the conscientious young men in London and at the universities who form quasi-religious clubs and believe that the world can be reformed by heartiness and committee meetings. Foskett was a very able man, who knew quite well what he wanted and was determined to get it: being an Englishman to the backbone, he combined an affection for the word Duty with an invincible belief that Duty, for him, always corresponded with his own particular ambitions. He was by no means a hypocrite: it simply never occurred to him that his policy of 'getting on' might be inconsistent with some of his moral ideals. While he had chosen to disguise the more unpalatable articles of faith with a sugary paste of scientific catch-words, he never questioned the absolute value of Christian Morality.

He had married, characteristically, the daughter of a colonial bishop, a tall, gaunt woman with sparkling eyes and an immense capacity for enthusiasm. Not only was she prepared to take up all her husband's causes, but she also took up him and worshipped at his shrine with a persistent and unflinching devotion. He represented for her all that was estimable: he was strong and wise and pure: he was just the man to mould the lives and ideals of the new generation, to make the finest religion and the finest patriotism vital forces in the school, and to pass through the richest headmasterships in England to a dignified old age as head of an Oxford college. They were both of them supremely methodical, and she bore him a child every three years. Naturally her guests were overwhelmed. While Foskett looked quiet and authoritative and made bad jokes in a quaint, theoretic manner at the head of the table, his wife chattered and gushed and became vastly enthusiastic over house junior football teams and the personnel of next year's cricket eleven. Her grasp of detail and statistics carried dismay even to boys. Martin was glad that he was in the middle of the table and avoided the necessity of making conversation.

"Medio tutissimus ibis," he quoted to himself from that morning's 'trans' as he listened to Caruth, who had used Brilliantine instead of water and was eager to shine socially, answering her questions and assenting to her tremendous declamations.

"Isn't it splendid," said Mrs Foskett, "about the school athletics? When we first came here Elfrey hardly ever won its school matches and now we never get beaten. Fermor's play last summer was marvellous, positively marvellous. D'you know, he actually got fifty wickets for 9.76 and had a batting average of 37. He's sure to get a blue at Cambridge. The last Elfreyan to get a blue was Staples: he made 74 at Lord's and was run out by an Old Etonian."

"Hard luck," said Caruth. "I do think being run out is rotten."

"Are you a cricketer?" continued Mrs Foskett.

"Well, I was captain of my preparatory school," said Caruth, assuming the humble voice and depreciatory smile that betoken a proper modesty. "But of course that's not much."

"It's the best beginning. You're sure to play for the school before you're done."

"Oh, I don't suppose so," answered Caruth. He felt it to be an inefficient answer and wondered, fingering his tie, what the ideal reply would have been. Would 'Oh, Mrs Foskett!' have been too familiar?

Then it turned out that Caruth had been to Murren for the winter sports. This was one of Mrs Foskett's well-known themes. Her subjects included Greece, Switzerland, Patriotism, Sport, and the Nobility.

"Oh, I think Murren's so lovely," she began. "To be so high up, right above those Wengen people. I love ski-ing. And the sun. And the glorious air. There's nothing like it. And such nice people. Such really charming people. Last winter we met Lord and Lady Dalston. They're so interested in the personal side of Social Service. Lord Dalston has a club in the Mile End Road, and in the evenings he goes and sings there himself—such a beautiful voice. Of course they don't get many people yet because of——"

"The picture palaces," suggested Caruth nobly. He thought it about time that he got a word in and was eager to excuse the scandalous absence of appreciation of Lord Dalston's art.

"Yes, those terrible places. And they do have such sensational films in the East End. I'm sure they have a bad influence. What the people really need is a drill hall with exercises and good music. I've been putting the case to Lady Dalston."

"Rather," said Caruth, who was himself a staunch patron of the pictorial drama. And then he added: "I think National Service would be a good thing for the poor."

He had given Mrs Foskett her cue. She broke out into a triumph song in whose turbulent flow the words 'physique' and 'efficiency' came frequently rolling. She was careful to say that she was not a militantist and hated the thought of war, but she didn't see any harm in teaching people how to shoot one another if need be. "War's so educational," she ended. "Brings out the strength of the nation."

And then there floated from the other end of the table the throaty voice of the Head as he told an antique Jowett story, which had been picked up in his under-graduate days and always did good service when the flame of conversation flickered.

Martin, sitting silently in the middle of the table, concentrated on the supper. It was worth all the attention he gave it. He managed to consume a plate of soup, some fried sole, two sausages and bacon, one helping of trifle and one of fruit salad, and as much dessert and chocolate as came his way. The Fosketts certainly understood the art of feeding.

Afterwards there was a feeble attempt made to play some games, but not even Mrs Foskett could overcome the self-consciousness of her guests. Interest waned and the Head's jokes became worse and worse. They were all relieved when the time came for departure.

As they walked back Caruth, who was secretly pleased with his conversational display, said loftily: "Thank the Lord that's over."

Martin answered: "I should think so. Ghastly show." In reality he was thinking, 'Ripping grub.' He was not a particularly greedy person, but Elfrey air is keen and any growing boy can appreciate a solid meal about half-past six. Martin was quite prepared, for his part, to change his