A ray of tawdry sunlight penetrated the dust and murkiness of the atmosphere, bringing into prominence the rather obvious fact that Mr. Weston was combining reverie with the observation of his class through the interstices of his fingers. (This was an integral part of Mr. Weston’s disciplinary system.) Ever and anon his eyes would focus themselves upon a particular boy in the hope that if he were watched long enough he would do something amiss. This happy consummation was not long in coming. There was that boy Jones! Jones was doing something. Surely, surely! ... Well, well, perhaps he would do it again. There, he had done it.... His jaws had moved perpendicularly twice within ten seconds. There could be no further doubt about it. Jones was eating! “Jones.” “Yes, sir.” “Are you eating?” “Yes, sir.” “Then I will report you to Mr. Clotters on Monday morning. I will not have this sort of thing going on in my class. Your manners are those of the lower animals. Come up here and put what you are eating into the waste-paper basket!” § 5 Punctually at five Mr. Weston locked his desk and prepared to observe the solemn ritual of dismissal. It was in three movements. “Attention!” called Mr. Weston, and the class looked at him eagerly. “Stand!” called Mr. Weston, and the class stood. But there must have been some flaw in the standing, for Mr. Weston immediately said, “Sit down again!” They sat down again. “Now stand!” cried Mr. Weston, after a suitable pause, and this time the manœuvre met with his approval. “Three!” continued Mr. Weston, and at this mysterious direction the class took a side-step into its respective gangways. “First row--forward!” “Second.” “Third.” When the last row had dissolved into the disintegrating chaos of the corridor, Mr. Weston took up his hat and umbrella and walked through the masters’ gateway into the frowsiness of Downsland Road.... § 6 In the hot kitchen of No. 24, Kitchener Road, Mr. Weston made himself some tea and cut some bread and butter. He had not much time to spare. He must add a few pages to his paper. Then he must wash and shave and make himself respectable. During his meal he thought once or twice of those old days when Laura, his wife, had been there to get his tea ready for him, to fuss round the books and papers he brought home, and to say: “Going out to-night, are you? Because if not, there’s your slippers. And let’s ’ave your dirty boots....” He thought, too, of Catherine: a little child, asking him absurd questions, messing about with his exercise books, begging him for half-used sheets to scribble on. But there was nothing regretful in his thoughts of those past days. On the contrary, he rather inclined to moralize: “I don’t know whether I’m not actually better off than I was then. At any rate I’m free, and I can do what I like. It’s not so bad, really.” He wrote down a few sentences about Shakespeare.