een
too strong for him.

It was the only time another path ever even suggested itself to him, and
then the suggestion had not been sincere, merely the promptings of that
literary sense which is in all imaginative youth. It prompted, too, not
so worthily, in an aspect of his new knowledge that did not escape
him--a certain romance about it, a feeling that it made him rather
interesting, something of a figure.... He would not have been human had
he quite escaped that at his age. And yet it was that feeling no one but
Killigrew, who frankly mooted it, had a suspicion of as possible, so
Ishmael realised with shame. Also his commonsense told him that the
sordid and quite unromantic incidents were likely to pile up more
thickly than any of charm or pleasure. His was an admirable position for
any one who loved self-pity; he would be able to see himself as a
romantic centre, to feed on misunderstanding and enjoy a self-conscious
isolation.

That was the real danger, one that the Parson, who was in some matters
of a beautiful simplicity, had never realised. He had only foreseen the
straightforward shames and difficulties, and by these Ishmael was at an
age to be untouched, while he was just ripe for the former snare.

He walked over the moor and rejoined the St. Renny track with the sense
of relief that we all get when one of two ways has been definitely
discarded. He had even ceased to worry over what decision Old Tring had
come to, though when he made out the Parson's figure coming towards him
his heart gave a leap and then beat more quickly than its wont. He
hastened his steps to meet him.

Boase waved his hat in a gesture of triumph, as though to signal that
all was well, and his first shouted words told Ishmael that this was not
to be the end of his career at St. Renny. With the knowledge went a
queer little pang of disappointment; he had so been accustoming his mind
to the glamour of expulsion in circumstances such as his. The Parson, in
whose philosophy it would have held nothing but disaster, was beaming
with joy. He sat down on a stretch of turf and Ishmael lay beside him,
waiting.

"In the first place, the injury isn't serious. Carron, the surgeon from
Plymouth, says it's nothing in the world but a muscle torn away, that is
painful but not dangerous. He says he does not know why the boy made
such a fuss; he can see nothing to account for delirium. I could have
given a guess, but refrained.... Anyway, I've been ha