Shelley described as a rebel. He got a copy of his
works out of the library, but found little there resembling the work of
his own favourite. However, he quoted a verse out of _O World, O Life, O
Time!_ and decided to search more deeply later on. The bulk of the essay
was a glowing eulogy of _The Hymn to Proserpine_ and _Don Juan_. It was
very dogmatic, very absurd in parts, but it had the merit of enthusiasm,
and, at any rate, showed a genuine appreciation of a certain class of
literature.

Well satisfied, he made his way across to the Sixth Form room, and found
Ferrers gazing at a pile of papers, as Hercules must have gazed at the
Augean stables.

"Um," said Ferrers, "who are you?"

"Caruthers, sir. I have brought you the essay you set the Sixth."

"Right; let's have a look at it; hope it is better than the stuff I have
just been reading."

"Yes, yes, um--ah," he murmured to himself, as he read on. There was
clearly some hankering after style, some searching for an idea. Ferrers
dearly wanted to smile at the attack on Wordsworth, and the comparison
between Swinburne and Milton (whom Gordon had never read), all in favour
of the Pre-Raphaelite. But he knew that it would be a fatal thing to do;
it would seem superior; the master must come down to the boy's level. He
read on to the end of the wild, sprawling peroration.

"Not bad stuff, Caruthers, not bad at all. Far and away better than
anything I have so far struck. I must talk to you again about this; I am
glad you love Byron; I do myself; people run him down--fools, that is.
You stick to Byron, he is all right. And don't despise the rest too
much. Have a shot at Keats and Shelley. They are not so powerful, but
good all the same, very fine stuff.... Try _The Pot of Basil_. Must rush
off now. Are you in training? No! Not yet. Right. Come up to tea
to-morrow. Good-night."

And thus began a friendship that was the most permanent in Gordon's
school career.

Every Friday he used to climb up the hill past Rogers's house, and step
out down the white London road to Ferrers's cosy little home. Over a cup
of tea he read an essay. Ferrers would lie back listening, and then
discuss it with him. He sometimes blamed the actual expression of it,
but he never found fault on questions of taste. He let Gordon browse at
will in the fields of English literature; he suggested books he thought
Gordon would like; he did not try to rush him on. There was heaps of
time; he would let