“What are those wretched little flowers?” said Mr. Redmayne, pointing at them contemptuously.

“Oh, don’t say that,” said Howard; “they are always the first to struggle up, and they are the earliest signs of spring.  Those are aconites.”

“Aconites?  Deadly poison!” said Mr. Redmayne, in a tone of horror.  “Well, I don’t object to them,—­though I must say that I prefer the works of man to the works of God at all times and in all places.  I don’t like the spring—­it’s a languid and treacherous time; it always makes me feel that I wish I were doing something else.”

They paced for some minutes round the garden gossiping, Redmayne making very trenchant criticisms, but evidently enjoying the younger man’s company.  At something which he said, Howard uttered a low laugh, which was pleasant to hear from the sense of contented familiarity which it gave.

“Ah, you may laugh, my young friend,” said Redmayne, “but when you have reached my time of life and see everything going to pieces round you, you have occasionally to protest against the general want of backbone, and the sentimentality of the age.”

“Yes, but you don’t really object,” said Howard; “you know you enjoy your grievances!”

“Well, I am a philosopher,” said Mr. Redmayne, “but you are overdoing your philanthropics.  Luncheon in Hall for the boys, dinner at seven-thirty for the boys, a new cricket-ground for the boys; you pamper them!  Now in my time, when the undergraduates complained about the veal in Hall, old Grant sent for us third-year men, and said that he understood there were complaints about the veal, of which he fully recognised the justice, and so they would go back to mutton and beef and stick to them, and then he bowed us out.  Now the Bursar would send for the cook, and they would mingle their tears together.”

Howard laughed again, but made no comment, and presently said he must go back to work.  As they went in, Mr. Redmayne put his hand in Howard’s arm, and said, “Don’t mind me, my young friend!  I like to have my growl, but I am proud of the old place, and you do a great deal for it.”

Howard smiled, and tucked the old man’s hand closer to his side with a movement of his arm.  “I shall come and fetch you out again some morning,” he said.

He got back to his rooms at ten o’clock, and a moment afterwards a young man appeared in a gown.  Howard sat down at his table, pulled a chair up to his side, produced a corrected piece of Latin prose, made some criticisms and suggestions, and ended up by saying, “That’s a good piece!  You have improved a good deal lately, and that would get you a solid mark.”  Then he sat for a minute or two talking about the books his pupil was reading, and indicating the points he was to look out for, till at half-past ten another youth appeared to go through the same process.  This went on until twelve o’clock.  Howard’s manner was kindly and business-like, and the undergraduates were very much at their ease.  One of them objected to one of his criticisms.  Howard turned to a dictionary and showed him a paragraph.  “You will see I am right,” he said, “but don’t hesitate to object to anything I say—­these usages are tricky things!” The undergraduate smiled and nodded.