row.  From the expanse of countenances beamed a boundless self-satisfaction.  To be connected in any way with Whitelaw formed a subject of pride, seeing that here was the sturdy outcome of the most modern educational endeavour, a noteworthy instance of what Englishmen can do for themselves, unaided by bureaucratic machinery.  Every student who achieved distinction in to-day’s class lists was felt to bestow a share of his honour upon each spectator who applauded him.

With occasional adjustment of his eye-glasses, and smiling his smile of modest tolerance, Mr. Warricombe surveyed the crowded hall.  His connection with the town was not intimate, and he could discover few faces that were familiar to him.  A native and, till of late, an inhabitant of Devon, he had come to reside on his property near Kingsmill because it seemed to him that the education of his children would be favoured by a removal thither.  Two of his oldest friends held professorships at Whitelaw; here, accordingly, his eldest son was making preparation for Cambridge, whilst his daughter attended classes at the admirable High School, of which Kingsmill was only less proud than of its College.

Seated between his father and his sister, Buckland drew their attention to such persons or personages as interested his very selective mind.

‘Admire the elegant languor of Wotherspoon,’ he remarked, indicating the Professor of Greek.  ’Watch him for a moment, and you’ll see him glance contemptuously at old Plummer.  He can’t help it; they hate each other.’

‘But why?’ whispered the girl, with timid eagerness.

’Oh, it began, they say, when Plummer once had to take one of Wotherspoon’s classes; some foolery about a second aorist.  Thank goodness, I don’t understand the profound dispute.—­Oh, do look at that fatuous idiot Chilvers!’

The young gentleman of whom he spoke, a student of Buckland’s own standing, had just attracted general notice.  Rising from his seat in the lower part of the amphitheatre, at the moment when all were hushed in anticipation of the Principal’s address, Mr. Chilvers was beckoning to someone whom his eye had descried at great distance, and for whom, as he indicated by gesture, he had preserved a place.

‘See how it delights him to make an exhibition of himself!’ pursued the censorious youth.  ’I’d bet a sovereign he’s arranged it all.  Look how he brandishes his arm to display his cuffs and gold links.  Now he touches his hair, to point out how light and exquisite it is, and how beautifully he parts it!’

‘What a graceful figure!’ murmured Mrs. Warricombe, with genuine admiration.

‘There, that’s just what he hopes everyone is saying,’ replied her son, in a tone of laughing disgust.

‘But he certainly is graceful, Buckland,’ persisted the lady.

‘And in the meantime,’ remarked Mr. Warricombe, drily, ’we are all awaiting the young gentleman’s pleasure.’