They had reached the outside of the window of the dining-room, where the school-boys were learning their lessons for the morrow. Bobus was sitting at the table with a small lamp so shaded as to concentrate the light on him and to afford it to no one else. On the floor was a servant’s flat candlestick, mounted on a pile of books, between one John sprawling at full length preparing his Virgil, the other cross-legged, working a sum with ink from a doll’s tea-cup placed in the candlestick, and all the time there was a wonderful mumbling accompaniment, as there always was between those two. “I say, what does pulsum come from?” “What a brute this is of a fraction! Skipjack, what will go in 639 and 852?” “Pulsum, a pulse--volat, flies. Eh! Three’ll do it. Or common measure it at once.” “Bother common measure. The threes in--” “Fama, fame; volat, flies; pulsum, the pulse; cecisse, to have ceased; paternis regnis, in the paternal kingdom. I say wouldn’t that rile Perkins like fun?” “The threes in seven--two--in eighteen--” “I say, Johnny, is pulsum from pulco?” “Never heard of it.” “Bobus, is it pulco, pulxi, pulsum?” “Pulco--I make an ass of myself,” muttered Bobus. “O murder,” groaned Johnny, “it has come out 213.” “Not half so much murder as this pulsum. Why it will go in them both. I can see with half an eye.” “Isn’t it pello--pulsum?” “Pello, to drive out. Hurrah! That fits it.” “Look out, Skipjack, there’s a moth.” “Anything worth having?” demanded Bobus. “Only a grass eggar. Fama, fame; volat, flies; Idomoeea ducem, that Idomaeeus the leader; pulsum, expelled. Get out, I say, you foolish beggar” (to the moth). “Never mind catching him,” said Bobus, “we’ve got dozens.” “Yes, but I don’t want him frizzling alive in my candle.” “Don’t kick up such a shindy,” broke out Johnny, as a much stained handkerchief came flapping about. “You’ve blotted my sum. Thunder and ages!” as the candlestick toppled over, ink and all. “That is a go!” “I say, Bobus, lend us your Guy Fawkes to pick up the pieces.” “Not if I know it,” said Bobus. “You always smash things.” “There’s a specimen of the way we learn our lessons,” said Caroline, in a low voice, still unseen, as Bobus wiped, sheathed, and pocketed his favourite pen, then proceeded to turn down the lamp, but allowed the others to relight their candle at the expiring wick. “The results are fair,” said Mr. Ogilvie. “I think of your carpet,” said Mary, quaintly. “We always lay down an ancient floorcloth in the bay window before the boys come home,” said Carey, laughing. “Here, Bobus.” And as he came out headforemost at the window, the two ladies discreetly drew off to leave the conversation free. “So, Brownlow,” said Mr. Ogilvie, “I hear you don’t want to try your luck elsewhere.” “No, sir.” “Do you object to telling me why?” “I see no use in it,” said Bobus, never shy, and further aided by the twilight; “I do quite well enough here.”