the fever of the examination made Michael desperate with the
best intentions. He almost learned the translations of Thucydides and
Sophocles, of Horace and Cicero. He knew by heart a meanly written Roman
History, and no passage in Corneille could hold an invincible word.
Cricket was never played that summer by the Middle Fifth; it was more
useful to wander in corners of the field, murmuring continually the
tables of the Kings of Judah from Maclear's sad-hued abstract of Holy
Scripture. In the end Michael passed in Greek and Latin, in French and
Divinity and Roman History, even in Algebra and Euclid, but the
arithmetical problems of a Stockbroker, a Paper-hanger and a Housewife
made all the rest of his knowledge of no account, and Michael failed to
see beside his name in the school list that printed bubble which would
refer him to the tribe of those who had satisfied the examiners for the
Oxford and Cambridge Higher Certificate. This failure depressed Michael,
not because he felt implicated in any disgrace, but because he wished
very earnestly that he had not wasted so many hours of fine weather in
work. He made up his mind that the mistake should never be repeated, and
for the rest of his time at St. James' he resisted all set books. If
Demosthenes was held necessary, Michael would read Plato, and when
Cicero was set, Michael would feel bound to read Livy.

Michael looked back on the year with dissatisfaction, and wondered if
school was going to become more and more boring each new term for nine
more terms. The prospect was unendurably grey, and Michael felt that
life was not worth living. He talked over with Mr. Viner the flatness of
existence on the evening after the result of the examination was known.

"I swotted like anything," said Michael gloomily. "And what's the good?
I'm sick of everything."

The priest's eyes twinkled, as he plunged deeper into his wicker
arm-chair and puffed clouds of smoke towards the comfortable shelves of
books.

"You want a holiday," he remarked.

"A holiday?" echoed Michael fretfully. "What's the good of a holiday
with my mater at some beastly seaside place?"

"Oh, come," said the priest, smiling. "You'll be able to probe the
orthodoxy of the neighbouring clergy."

"Oh, no really, it's nothing to laugh at, Mr. Viner. You've no idea how
beastly it is to dawdle about in a crowd of people, and then at the end
go back to another term of school. I'm sick of everything. Will you lend