f his classmates, Michael sat down in his own desk again as
unobtrusively as he could.

Michael's peace of mind was not increased by the consciousness of Mr.
Cray's knowledge of his appeal to withdraw from the Upper Fifth, and he
became exposed to a large amount of sarcasm in allusion to his expressed
inclination towards history. He was continually referred to as an
authority on Constitutions; he was invited to bring forward comparisons
from more modern times to help the elucidation of the Syracusan
expedition or the Delian Confederacy.

All that Michael gained from Mr. Cray was a passion for second-hand
books--the latest and most fervid of all his collecting hobbies.

One wintry evening in Elson's Bookshop at Hammersmith he was enjoying
himself on the top of a ladder, when he became aware of an interested
gaze directed at himself over the dull-gilt edges of a large and
expensive work on Greek sculpture. The face that so regarded him was at
once fascinating and repulsive. The glittering blue eyes full of
laughter were immediately attractive, but something in the pointed ears
and curled-back lips, something in the peculiarly white fingers faintly
pencilled about the knuckles with fine black hairs, and after a moment
something cruel in the bright blue eyes themselves restrained him from
an answering smile.

"What is the book, Hyacinthus?" asked the stranger, and his voice was so
winning and so melodious in the shadowy bookshop that Michael
immediately fell into the easiest of conversations.

"Fond of books?" asked the stranger. "Oh, by the way, my name is Wilmot,
Arthur Wilmot."

Something in Wilmot's manner made Michael suppose that he ought to be
familiar with the name, and he tried to recall it.

"What's your name?" the stranger went on.

Michael told his name, and also his school, and before very long a good
deal about himself.

"I live near you," said Mr. Wilmot. "We'll walk along presently. I'd
like you to dine with me one night soon. When?"

"Oh, any time," said Michael, trying to speak as if invitations to
dinner occurred to him three or four times a day.

"Here's my card," said the stranger. "You'd better show it to your
mother--so that she'll know it's all right. I'm a writer, you know."

"Oh, yes," Michael vaguely agreed.

"I don't suppose you've seen any of my stuff. I don't publish much.
Sometimes I read my poems to Interior people."

Michael looked puzzled.

"Interior is my name for the pe