ssion, when
he was at Oxford, used to walk down the High leading a lobster on a
silver chain, and even that wasn't original, for he stole the poor
little fantastic idea from some precious French poet. But that senior
curate is a very fine fellow to-day. No, no, this fellow Wilmot and all
his set are very bad company for you, and I do not like your being
decadent with these half-baked fancy-cakes."

Michael, however, would not admit that Mr. Viner was right, and
frequented the dangerous peacock-blue room in Edwardes Square more than
ever. He took Chator there amongst others, and was immensely gratified
to be solemnly warned at the end of the visit that he was playing with
Hell-fire. This seemed to him an interesting and original pastime, and
he hinted to solemn, simple, spluttering old Chator of more truly
Satanic mysteries.

After Christmas Michael had his way and was moved into the History
Sixth, mainly owing to the intervention of the Member for West
Kensington. The History Sixth was presided over by Mr. Kirkham, whose
nominal aim in life was the amelioration of Jacobean athletics. From the
fact that he wore an M.C.C. ribbon round his straw hat, and an Oxford
University Authentic tie, it is probable that the legend of his former
skill at cricket was justified. In reality he was much more interested
in Liberalism than anything else, and persistently read Blue Books,
under-lining the dramatic moments of Royal Commissions and chewing his
moustache through pages of dialogue hostile to his opinions. A rumour
sped round the school that he had been invited to stand for Parliament,
a rumour which Michael, on the strength of dining with the Member for
West Kensington, flatly contradicted.

The History Sixth class-room was a pleasant place, the only class-room
in the school that ever saw the sun. Its windows looked out on the great
green expanse of the school ground, where during the deserted hours of
work the solitary roller moved sedately and ancient women weeded the
pitches.

There were only seven boys in the History Sixth. There was Strang, the
Captain of the Eleven, who lounged through the dull Lent term and
seemed, as he spread his bulk over the small desk, like a half-finished
statue to which still adhered a fragment of uncarved stone. There was
Terry, the Vice-Captain of the Fifteen and most dapper half-back that
ever cursed forwards. He spent his time trying to persuade Strang to
take an interest in Noughts and Cr