"Any Chinese dynasty, the more remote the better. Henry, tell us the names of some Chinese dynasties." In obedience to his mother, Henry delivered a brief disquisition on the history of politics, art, and letters in the Far East. The Headmaster continued his reminiscences. An angel of silence passed. The boys, whose shyness had begun to wear off, became suddenly and painfully conscious of hearing themselves eating. Mrs. Cravister saved the situation. "Lord Francis knows all about birds," she said in her most thrilling voice. "Perhaps he can tell us why it is the unhappy fate of the carrion crow to mate for life." Conversation again became general. Dick was still thinking about his sonnet. Oh, these rhymes!--praise, bays, roundelays, amaze: greet, bleat, defeat, beat, paraclete. . . . ". . . to sing the praise In anthems high and solemn roundelays Of Holy Father, Son and Paraclete." That was good--damned good; but it hardly seemed to fit in with the first quatrain. It would do for one of his religious poems, though. He had written a lot of sacred verse lately. Then suddenly, cutting across his ecstatic thoughts, came the sound of Henry Cravister's reedy voice. "But I always find Pater's style so _coarse_," it said. Something explosive took place in Dick's head. It often happens when one blows one's nose that some passage in the labyrinth connecting ears and nose and throat is momentarily blocked, and one becomes deaf and strangely dizzy. Then, suddenly, the mucous bubble bursts, sound rushes back to the brain, the head feels clear and stable once more. It was something like this, but transposed into terms of the spirit, that seemed now to have happened to Dick. It was as though some mysterious obstruction in his brain, which had dammed up and diverted his faculties from their normal course during the past three weeks, had been on a sudden overthrown. His life seemed to be flowing once more along familiar channels. He was himself again. "But I always find Pater's style so _coarse_." These few words of solemn foolery were the spell which had somehow performed the miracle. It was just the sort of remark he might have made three weeks ago, before the crisis. For a moment, indeed, he almost thought it was he himself who had spoken; his own authentic voice, carried across the separating gulf of days, had woken him again to life! He looked at Francis Quarles. Why, the fellow was nothing but a great prize ox, a monstrous animal. "There was a Lady loved a Swine. Honey, said she . . ." It was ignoble, it was ridiculous. He could have hidden his face in his hands for pure shame; shame tingled through his body. Goodness, how grotesquely he had behaved!