but the heart of all things was hidden.
There was a password and he could not learn it, nor could the kind
editor of the "Holborn" teach him. He sighed, and then sighed more
piteously. For had he not known the password once--known it and
forgotten it already? But at this point his fortunes become intimately
connected with those of Mr. Pembroke.

PART 2 -- SAWSTON

XVI

In three years Mr. Pembroke had done much to solidify the day-boys
at Sawston School. If they were not solid, they were at all events
curdling, and his activities might reasonably turn elsewhere. He had
served the school for many years, and it was really time he should be
entrusted with a boarding-house. The headmaster, an impulsive man who
darted about like a minnow and gave his mother a great deal of trouble,
agreed with him, and also agreed with Mrs. Jackson when she said that
Mr. Jackson had served the school for many years and that it was really
time he should be entrusted with a boarding-house. Consequently, when
Dunwood House fell vacant the headmaster found himself in rather a
difficult position.

Dunwood House was the largest and most lucrative of the boarding-houses.
It stood almost opposite the school buildings. Originally it had been
a villa residence--a red-brick villa, covered with creepers and crowned
with terracotta dragons. Mr. Annison, founder of its glory, had lived
here, and had had one or two boys to live with him. Times changed. The
fame of the bishops blazed brighter, the school increased, the one or
two boys became a dozen, and an addition was made to Dunwood House that
more than doubled its size. A huge new building, replete with every
convenience, was stuck on to its right flank. Dormitories, cubicles,
studies, a preparation-room, a dining-room, parquet floors, hot-air
pipes--no expense was spared, and the twelve boys roamed over it like
princes. Baize doors communicated on every floor with Mr. Annison's
part, and he, an anxious gentleman, would stroll backwards and forwards,
a little depressed at the hygienic splendours, and conscious of some
vanished intimacy. Somehow he had known his boys better when they had
all muddled together as one family, and algebras lay strewn upon the
drawing room chairs. As the house filled, his interest in it decreased.
When he retired--which he did the same summer that Rickie left
Cambridge--it had already passed the summit of excellence and was
beginning to decline. Its numbers were