David was conscious of a great many things that made for cheerfulness. His father, to begin with, had put himself gloriously right with the school, and had, very wisely, left in the hour of supreme popularity, so that there was no fear of his forfeiting, by gaiters or Christian names or flat headers at the bathing-place, or any such tragic follies, the esteem he had won. For, greatly daring, as it seemed to the boys, he had asked the Head to grant an extra half-holiday, and the announcement that it would be given this afternoon, “in honour of his visit,” had duly appeared on the school notice-board. It was supposed by some one who had seen his flat header that the phrase “in honour of his visit” must mark a sarcastic intention on the part of the Head, but whether that was so or not there was no doubt about the half-holiday, which was all that mattered. Even David, when quite respectfully appealed to, had no clear idea as to why his father’s visit was an honour, but supposed it must have something to do with the books he wrote, which were printed by the Clarendon Press at Oxford. In any case, he felt quite certain now that all the errors of which his father had been guilty would be pardoned and forgotten, and that he would never hear any more of his hat or his gaiters, of his excruciating performance at the cricket-nets, of his belly-floppers into the bathing-place, of his betrayal of his own son’s Christian name, or finally of the disastrous discourse he had unfortunately delivered at school-chapel on Sunday evening. For the moment, as he remembered that, David’s whistle ceased, and he clutched at the five shillings and the Monarch’s travelling-carriage for comfort. It had been too awful: not only had he talked the most dreadful rot about the joy and peace of the chapel services (same as last year, only worse) under the influence of which all troubles and anxiety melted away, but he had gone on and on and on in a manner quite unparalleled. For forty stricken minutes he had detained them (Stone said forty-two), which beat all known records by at least nine minutes, and it was no wonder that the boy next David had written “AND NOW” in capital letters on the fly-leaf of his hymn-book and passed it to him. . . . But that was all over; he had made the most honourable amends, and David knew that his father would be considered a credit to him. Indeed that “he was a first-rate old buffer” was quite a moderate estimate of him, and one given by the most critical.