Monday dawned coldly and clearly—­a Herbert Spencer of a day—­and he went to school sedulously assuring himself there was nothing to apprehend.  Day boys were whispering in the morning apparently about him, and Frobisher ii. was in great request.  Lewisham overheard a fragment “My mother was in a wax,” said Frobisher ii.

At twelve came an interview with Bonover, and voices presently rising in angry altercation and audible to Senior-assistant Dunkerley through the closed study door.  Then Lewisham walked across the schoolroom, staring straight before him, his cheeks very bright.

Thereby Dunkerley’s mind was prepared for the news that came the next morning over the exercise books.  “When?” said Dunkerley.

“End of next term,” said Lewisham.

“About this girl that’s been staying at the Frobishers?”

“Yes.”

“She’s a pretty bit of goods.  But it will mess up your matric next June,” said Dunkerley.

“That’s what I’m sorry for.”

“It’s scarcely to be expected he’ll give you leave to attend the exam....”

“He won’t,” said Lewisham shortly, and opened his first exercise book.  He found it difficult to talk.

“He’s a greaser.” said Dunkerley.  “But there!—­what can you expect from Durham?” For Bonover had only a Durham degree, and Dunkerley, having none, inclined to be particular.  Therewith Dunkerley lapsed into a sympathetic and busy rustling over his own pile of exercises.  It was not until the heap had been reduced to a book or so that he spoke again—­an elaborate point.

“Male and female created He them,” said Dunkerley, ticking his way down the page.  “Which (tick, tick) was damned hard (tick, tick) on assistant masters.”

He closed the book with a snap and flung it on the floor behind him.  “You’re lucky,” he said.  “I did think I should be first to get out of this scandalising hole.  You’re lucky.  It’s always acting down here.  Running on parents and guardians round every corner.  That’s what I object to in life in the country:  it’s so confoundedly artificial. I shall take jolly good care I get out of it just as soon as ever I can.  You bet!”

“And work those patents?”

“Rather, my boy.  Yes.  Work those patents.  The Patent Square Top Bottle!  Lord!  Once let me get to London....”

“I think I shall have a shot at London,” said Lewisham.

And then the experienced Dunkerley, being one of the kindest young men alive, forgot certain private ambitions of his own—­he cherished dreams of amazing patents—­and bethought him of agents.  He proceeded to give a list of these necessary helpers of the assistant master at the gangway—­Orellana, Gabbitas, The Lancaster Gate Agency, and the rest of them.  He knew them all—­intimately.  He had been a “nix” eight years.  “Of course that Kensington thing may come off,” said Dunkerley, “but it’s best not to wait.  I tell you frankly—­the chances are against you.”