Jeremy wore the cloak of innocence, sitting in the back row of the French class with several of his dearest friends and all the class ready to support him in any direction that he might follow. “I beg your pardon, sir,” Jeremy said. “Did you say three hundred lines?” “That is the exact amount,” said M. Clemenceau, “that I require from you _immediatement_.” “I beg your pardon,” said Jeremy politely. “I need not repeat,” said M. Clemenceau. “Three hundred lines by you at once for impertinence three days previous.” “Why, sir, surely,” said Jeremy, “you told me that I need not do them this term because . . .” “No because,” interrupted M. Clemenceau at the top of a rather squeaky voice. “There is no because.” “But, sir,” began Jeremy; and from all sides of the class there broke out: “Why, certainly, sir, don’t you remember——” and “Cole is quite right, sir; you said——” and “I think you’ve forgotten, sir, that——” and “It really wouldn’t be fair, sir, if——” A babel arose. As the boys very well knew, M. Clemenceau had a horror of too much noise, because Thompson was holding a class in the next room, and on two occasions that very term had sent a boy in to request that if it were possible M. Clemenceau should conduct his work a little more softly. And this had been agony for M. Clemenceau’s proud French spirit. “I will have silence,” he shrieked. “This is no one’s business but mine and the young Cole. Let no one speak until I tell them to do so. Now, Cole, where are the three hundred lines?” There was a complete and absolute silence. “Vill you speak or vill you not speak?” M. Clemenceau cried. “Do you mean me, sir?” asked Jeremy very innocently. “Of course, I mean you.” “You said, sir, that no one was to speak until you told them to.” “Well, I tell you now.” Jeremy looked very injured. “I didn’t understand,” he said. “If I could explain to you quietly.” “Well, you shall explain afterwards,” said M. Clemenceau, and Jeremy knew that he was saved because he could deal _à deux_ with M. Clemenceau by appealing to his French heart, his sense of honour, and a number of other things, and might even, with good fortune, extract an invitation to tea, when M. Clemenceau, in his very cosy room, had a large supply of muffins and played on the flute. “Yes,” he thought to himself as they pursued up and down the class-room, sometimes ten at a time, sometimes only three or four, the intricacies of that French grammar that has to do with the pen of my aunt and the cat of my sister-in-law and “this is going to be a splendid day.” II