Mr. Turner reckoned that it took him a term to lick boys into shape after they had been in the Upper Third; and now and then he let fall a sly hint, which showed that he knew perfectly what went on in his colleague’s form.  He took it good-humouredly.  He looked upon boys as young ruffians who were more apt to be truthful if it was quite certain a lie would be found out, whose sense of honour was peculiar to themselves and did not apply to dealings with masters, and who were least likely to be troublesome when they learned that it did not pay.  He was proud of his form and as eager at fifty-five that it should do better in examinations than any of the others as he had been when he first came to the school.  He had the choler of the obese, easily roused and as easily calmed, and his boys soon discovered that there was much kindliness beneath the invective with which he constantly assailed them.  He had no patience with fools, but was willing to take much trouble with boys whom he suspected of concealing intelligence behind their wilfulness.  He was fond of inviting them to tea; and, though vowing they never got a look in with him at the cakes and muffins, for it was the fashion to believe that his corpulence pointed to a voracious appetite, and his voracious appetite to tapeworms, they accepted his invitations with real pleasure.

Philip was now more comfortable, for space was so limited that there were only studies for boys in the upper school, and till then he had lived in the great hall in which they all ate and in which the lower forms did preparation in a promiscuity which was vaguely distasteful to him.  Now and then it made him restless to be with people and he wanted urgently to be alone.  He set out for solitary walks into the country.  There was a little stream, with pollards on both sides of it, that ran through green fields, and it made him happy, he knew not why, to wander along its banks.  When he was tired he lay face-downward on the grass and watched the eager scurrying of minnows and of tadpoles.  It gave him a peculiar satisfaction to saunter round the precincts.  On the green in the middle they practised at nets in the summer, but during the rest of the year it was quiet:  boys used to wander round sometimes arm in arm, or a studious fellow with abstracted gaze walked slowly, repeating to himself something he had to learn by heart.  There was a colony of rooks in the great elms, and they filled the air with melancholy cries.  Along one side lay the Cathedral with its great central tower, and Philip, who knew as yet nothing of beauty, felt when he looked at it a troubling delight which he could not understand.  When he had a study (it was a little square room looking on a slum, and four boys shared it), he bought a photograph of that view of the Cathedral, and pinned it up over his desk.  And he found himself taking a new interest in what he saw from the window of the Fourth Form room.  It looked on to old lawns, carefully tended, and fine trees with foliage dense and rich.  It gave him an odd feeling in his heart, and he did not know if it was pain or pleasure.  It was the first dawn of the aesthetic emotion.  It accompanied other changes.  His voice broke.  It was no longer quite under his control, and queer sounds issued from his throat.