September sunlight, he to himself seemed like the country washed by the
serene radiance of the tempest's aftermath.

Chapter VIII: _Mirrors_

Michael somehow felt shy when he heard his mother's voice telling him to
come into her room. He had run upstairs and knocked excitedly at her
door before the shyness overwhelmed him, but it was too late not to
enter, and he sat down to give her the account of his holidays. Rather
dull it seemed, and robbed of all vitality by the barrier which both his
mother and he hastened to erect between themselves.

"Well, dear, did you enjoy yourself at this Monastery?"

"Oh, rather."

"Is the--what do you call him?--the head monk a nice man?"

"Oh, yes, awfully decent."

"And your friend Chator, did he enjoy himself?"

"Oh, rather. Only he had to go before me. Did you enjoy yourself abroad,
mother?"

"Very much, dear, thank you. We had lovely weather all the time."

"We had awfully ripping weather too."

"Have you got everything ready for school in the morning?"

"There's nothing much to get. I suppose I'll go into Cray's--the Upper
Fifth. Do you want me now, mother?"

"No, dear, I have one or two letters to write."

"I think I'll go round and see if Chator's home yet. You don't mind?"

"Don't be late for dinner."

"Oh, no, rather not."

Going downstairs from his mother's room, Michael had half an impulse to
turn back and confide in her the real account of his holidays. But on
reflection he protested to himself that his mother looked upon him as
immaculate, and he felt unwilling to disturb by such a revolutionary
step the approved tranquillities of maternal ignorance.

Mr. Cray, his new form-master, was a man of distinct personality, and
possessed a considerable amount of educative ability; but unfortunately
for Michael the zest of classics had withered in his heart after his
disappointment over the Oxford and Cambridge Certificate. Therefore Mr.
Cray with his bright archaeology and chatty scholarship bored Michael
more profoundly than any of his masters so far had bored him. Mr. Cray
resented this attitude very bitterly, being used to keenness in his
form, and Michael's dreary indolence, which often came nearer to
insolence, irritated him. As for the plodding, inky sycophants who
fawned upon Mr. Cray's informativeness, Michael regarded them with
horror and contempt. He sat surrounded by the butts and bugbears of his
school-life. All the boys whose existence he