ast, Gordon's last whole day at Fernhurst dawned.

As far as the Sixth were concerned, work was over. The rest of the
school had to go in for two hours for the rep. exam. The drowsy
atmosphere of a hot summer morning overhung everything. The studies were
very quiet. Gordon took a deck-chair on to the Sixth Form green and
settled down to read _Endymion_.

But he found it impossible to concentrate his thoughts on anything but
the riotous wave of introspection that was flooding his brain. He soon
gave up the attempt; and putting down the book, he lay back, his hands
behind his head, gazing at the great grey Abbey opposite him, while
through his brain ran Gilbert Cannan's words: "Life is round the
corner." He had failed. He knew he had failed. But where and why? Then,
as he began to question himself, suddenly he saw it all clearly. He had
failed because he had set out to gain only the things that the world
valued. He had sought power, and he had gained it; he had asked for
praise, and he had won it; he had fought, and he had conquered. But at
the moment of his triumph he had realised the vanity of all such
success; when he had come to probe it to the root, he had found it
shallow. For all the things that the world valued were shallow and
without depth, because the world never looked below the surface. He had
found no continuing city; his house was built upon sand.

The truth flashed in on him; he knew now that as long as he was content
to take the world's view of anything, he was bound to meet with
disillusionment. He would have to sift everything in the sieve of his
own experience. The judgment of others would be of no avail. He would be
an iconoclast. The fact that the world said a thing was beautiful or
ugly, and had to be treated as such, must mean nothing to him. He would
search for himself, he would plumb the depths, if needs be, in search of
the true ideal which was lurking somewhere in the dark. Tester had been
right. It was useless to look back to the past for guidance. He had a
few hours back asked for some fixed standard by which to judge the false
from the true. There were no standards except a man's own experience.
Here at Fernhurst he had failed to find anything, because he had sought
for the wrong things; he had at once accepted the crowd's statement for
the truth. Now it would be different. In his haste he had said that
Fernhurst had taught him nothing. He had been wrong. It had taught him
what many took y