Had Mr. Selby been a man of the world, it would have been no surprise to him that public opinion in the school should form so quickly and so cruelly against Gerald Eversley. As it was, he said only ‘Well, never mind about popularity; that is not the great thing.’ And he added solemnly, as if speaking to himself, ‘The blackest crime in history was the act of one who wanted to be popular;’ then aloud, ‘But was there any ground at all for the supposition that you would tell Mr. Brandiston about the boxing?’ ‘No, sir,’ replied Gerald; ‘only once before when I was made to box, they saw I could not bear it. You know, sir, I’m no good at games, like Venniker; and some of them laughed when I was “punished,” as they call it, and then the other boy hit out at my face worse than ever. And this time it was on Sunday, and it’s wrong to box on Sunday, isn’t it, sir?’ ‘Certainly it is wrong,’ said Mr. Selby; ‘but it is worse to make small boys box who don’t like it.’ Then he added, after a pause, ‘But you are sure Mr. Brandiston cannot have heard of the boxing, directly or indirectly, through you?’ ‘Yes, sir,’ cried Gerald, talking up, ‘quite sure.’ ‘You didn’t speak to anybody about it?’ ‘No, sir.’ ‘Then I will clear you, my dear Eversley,’ said Mr. Selby, emphatically, ‘I will clear you.’ And with one gentle pressure of his hand upon Gerald’s shoulder, he left the library. Gerald’s heart felt lighter; he took up his book again, and read. Mr. Selby’s action was simple, yet not free from difficulty. It was clear that, if Gerald Eversley’s tale was true, as Mr. Selby fully believed it to be, the one person who must know the truth of it, the one person who could set him right in the eyes of the house, was Mr. Brandiston. To Mr. Brandiston, therefore, Mr. Selby resolved to go. The resolution demanded more courage than might be supposed. For Mr. Brandiston, priding himself, as has been said, upon the excellence of his house, was known to be extremely impatient of all interference with his administration of it. If it was true that he did not mind punishing his boys himself, it was not less true that he minded other masters punishing them. Any criticism of his house, any censure or dispraise of it, he resented. He liked to find out the faults of his house (supposing there were any) for himself; he did not like to be told of them. And the long years of his mastership at St. Anselm’s had rendered him a little vain of his experience. He was apt to quote it as an argument in the presence of younger masters. But experience is not an argument; it is not even a guarantee of prudent conduct; it is the most overrated of the virtues--nay, it is not a virtue, for it makes the wise better, but it may make the foolish worse.