sport for gentlemen.  Didn’t have much chance of hunting now, had to leave that to his son.  His son was at Cambridge, he’d sent him to Rugby, fine school Rugby, nice class of boys there, in a couple of years his son would be articled, that would be nice for Philip, he’d like his son, thorough sportsman.  He hoped Philip would get on well and like the work, he mustn’t miss his lectures, they were getting up the tone of the profession, they wanted gentlemen in it.  Well, well, Mr. Goodworthy was there.  If he wanted to know anything Mr. Goodworthy would tell him.  What was his handwriting like?  Ah well, Mr. Goodworthy would see about that.

Philip was overwhelmed by so much gentlemanliness:  in East Anglia they knew who were gentlemen and who weren’t, but the gentlemen didn’t talk about it.

XXXVII

At first the novelty of the work kept Philip interested.  Mr. Carter dictated letters to him, and he had to make fair copies of statements of accounts.

Mr. Carter preferred to conduct the office on gentlemanly lines; he would have nothing to do with typewriting and looked upon shorthand with disfavour:  the office-boy knew shorthand, but it was only Mr. Goodworthy who made use of his accomplishment.  Now and then Philip with one of the more experienced clerks went out to audit the accounts of some firm:  he came to know which of the clients must be treated with respect and which were in low water.  Now and then long lists of figures were given him to add up.  He attended lectures for his first examination.  Mr. Goodworthy repeated to him that the work was dull at first, but he would grow used to it.  Philip left the office at six and walked across the river to Waterloo.  His supper was waiting for him when he reached his lodgings and he spent the evening reading.  On Saturday afternoons he went to the National Gallery.  Hayward had recommended to him a guide which had been compiled out of Ruskin’s works, and with this in hand he went industriously through room after room:  he read carefully what the critic had said about a picture and then in a determined fashion set himself to see the same things in it.  His Sundays were difficult to get through.  He knew no one in London and spent them by himself.  Mr. Nixon, the solicitor, asked him to spend a Sunday at Hampstead, and Philip passed a happy day with a set of exuberant strangers; he ate and drank a great deal, took a walk on the heath, and came away with a general invitation to come again whenever he liked; but he was morbidly afraid of being in the way, so waited for a formal invitation.  Naturally enough it never came, for with numbers of friends of their own the Nixons did not think of the lonely, silent boy whose claim upon their hospitality was so small.  So on Sundays he got up late and took a walk along the tow-path.  At Barnes the river is muddy, dingy, and tidal; it has neither the graceful charm of the Thames above the locks nor the