In one way there had been too much of a reception, in another not enough. It was silly of them to make that noise, but on the other hand there should have been more questions. How had he done in football? He had played half-back twice for the school. He had told them that in three different letters, and yet they had asked no questions. And there was Bates who had stolen jam out of a fellow’s tuck box. One of his letters had been full of that exciting incident, and yet they had asked no questions. It was true that they had had but little time for questions, nevertheless his father, at once after kissing him, had murmured something about his sermon—as though an old sermon mattered! Of course he did not think all this out. He only sat on his bed kicking his legs, looking at the well-remembered furniture of his room, vaguely discontented and unhappy. What fun it had been that morning, ragging Miss Taylor, laughing at the guard of the train, saying good-bye to old Mumpsey Thompson who recently spoke to him as though he were a man, asking him whether his parents had decided upon the public school to which, in two years’ time, he would be going—Eton, Harrow, Winchester, Craxton, Rugby, Crale and so on. Time to decide, time to decide! One’s public! The world widening and widening, growing ever more terribly exciting—and here Mary, sobbing in her room, and father with his sermons and the long evenings. At least no work—only a silly holiday task, a book called “The Talisman,” or some rot. No work. His spirits revived a little. No work and lots of food, and Hamlet. . . . Hamlet! He jumped off his bed. Why, he had never noticed the dog! He had forgotten. He rushed from the room. When he was half-way down the stairs he caught the echo of a voice: “Tea, Jeremy. All ready in the schoolroom.” But he did not pause. In the hall he saw the housemaid. “I say, where’s Hamlet?” he cried. “In the kitchen, I expect, Master Jeremy,” she answered. In the kitchen, she expected! Why should she expect it? Hamlet never used to be in the kitchen. His heart began to beat angrily. The kitchen? That was not the place for a dog like Hamlet. He stumbled down the dark stairs into the basement. Mrs. Hounslow was standing beside the kitchen table, her sleeves rolled up above her elbows; she was pounding and pounding. Jeremy cried, at once challenging: “I say, where’s my dog?” _His_ dog? Mrs. Hounslow, already too scarlet for further colour, nevertheless crimsoned internally. His dog! She hated little boys. Her sister, the one that married the postman, had had one. Two indeed. She loved Hamlet, who had become now, by the rights both of psychology and environment, hers. “’E’s lying there right in front of the fire, Master Jeremy—the poor little worm,” she added. “The poor little worm” was indeed stretched out gnawing at a bone. “He oughtn’t to be in front of the fire,” said Jeremy. “It’s bad for dogs. It gives them rheumatism.”