and are trying to produce a gimcrack
copy of Eton. Last term, you know, with a great deal of puffing and
blowing, they fixed the numbers of the school. This term they want to
create a new boarding-house."

"They are very welcome."

"But the more boarding-houses they create, the less room they leave for
day-boys. The local mothers are frantic, and so is my queer cousin.
I never knew him so excited over sub-Hellenic things. There was an
indignation meeting at his house. He is supposed to look after the
day-boys' interests, but no one thought he would--least of all the
people who gave him the post. The speeches were most eloquent.
They argued that the school was founded for day-boys, and that it's
intolerable to handicap them. One poor lady cried, 'Here's my Harold in
the school, and my Toddie coming on. As likely as not I shall be told
there is no vacancy for him. Then what am I to do? If I go, what's to
become of Harold; and if I stop, what's to become of Toddie?' I must
say I was touched. Family life is more real than national life--at least
I've ordered all these books to prove it is--and I fancy that the bust
of Euripides agreed with me, and was sorry for the hot-faced mothers.
Jackson will do what he can. He didn't quite like to state the
naked truth-which is, that boardinghouses pay. He explained it to me
afterwards: they are the only, future open to a stupid master. It's easy
enough to be a beak when you're young and athletic, and can offer the
latest University smattering. The difficulty is to keep your place when
you get old and stiff, and younger smatterers are pushing up behind
you. Crawl into a boarding-house and you're safe. A master's life is
frightfully tragic. Jackson's fairly right himself, because he has got
a first-class intellect. But I met a poor brute who was hired as an
athlete. He has missed his shot at a boarding-house, and there's nothing
in the world for him to do but to trundle down the hill."

Ansell yawned.

"I saw Rickie too. Once I dined there."

Another yawn.

"My cousin thinks Mrs. Elliot one of the most horrible women he has
ever seen. He calls her 'Medusa in Arcady.' She's so pleasant, too. But
certainly it was a very stony meal."

"What kind of stoniness"

"No one stopped talking for a moment."

"That's the real kind," said Ansell moodily. "The only kind."

"Well, I," he continued, "am inclined to compare her to an electric
light. Click! she's on. Click! she's off. No was