They always began, most honourably and scrupulously, with a game of chess; and then they had tea; and then they talked. Although George never suspected it until years afterwards, Pollak was subtly educating him, at the same time that he tried to give him the kind of sympathy he needed. Pollak had many volumes of Andersen’s photographs, which he let George turn over while he talked negligently but shrewdly about Italian architecture, styles of painters, Della Robbia work; and Mrs. Pollak occasionally threw in some little anecdote about travel. By the example of his own rather fastidious manners he corrected schoolboy uncouthnesses. He somehow got George riding lessons, for in Pollak’s days horse-riding was an indispensable accomplishment. Pollak always worked on the boy by suggestion and example, never by exhortation or patronage. He always assumed that George knew what he negligently but accurately told him. The manner in which he made George learn French was characteristic of his methods. One afternoon Pollak told a number of amusing stories about his young days in Paris, while George was looking through a volume of autographed letters of Napoleon, Talleyrand and other Frenchmen—which, of course, he could not read. Next week, when George arrived he found Pollak reading. “Hullo, Georgie, how are you? Just listen to this lovely thing I’ve been reading, and tell me what you think of it.” And Pollak read, in the rather chanting voice he adopted in reading poetry, André Chenier’s: “L’épi naissant murit, de la faux respecté.” George had to confess shamefacedly that he hadn’t understood. Pollak handed him the book, one of those charming large-type Didot volumes; but André Chénier was too much for George’s public school French. “Oh, I _do_ wish I could read it properly,” said George. “How did you learn French?” “I suppose I learned it in Paris. ’Tis pleasing to be schooled in a strange tongue by female eyes and lips, you know. But you could learn very soon if you really tried.” “But how? I’ve done French at school for ages, and I simply can’t read it, though I’ve often tried.” “What you learn at school is only to handle the tools—you’ve got to learn to use them for yourself. You take _Les Trois Mousquetaires_, read straight through a few pages, marking the words you don’t know, look them up, make lists of them, and try to remember them. Don’t linger over them too much, but try and get interested in the story.” “But I’ve read _The Three Musketeers_ in English.” “Well, try _Vingt Ans Après_. You can have my copy and mark it.” “No, there’s a paper-backed one at home. I’ll use that.” In a fortnight George had skipped through the first volume of _Vingt Ans Après_. In a month he could read simple French prose easily. Three months later he was able to read “_La Jeune Captive_” aloud to Pollak, who afterwards turned the talk on to Ronsard; and opened up yet another vista. * * * * *