Their governor was a charming young Rhinelander called Schultz. He was very highly recommended to me by friends; he had, they told me, taken a particularly good degree at his University. When I interviewed him in London I asked what he took his degree in, and he said very seriously “Pædagogy.” I asked whether he could play the piano; he said no, he had given all his time to pædagogy. I asked whether he knew French; he said no, only pædagogy. I began to become interested in this curious subject, and asked him what pædagogy was about. He brightened up at once, and said, “It is very simple; you trust the child, he love you.” I wanted to know how long his course had been; he said six years. I said that seemed rather a long time; he said most unfortunately his course had been cut short. I asked him what he would have studied if he had been able to take a full course, he said pædagogy. I was beginning to get quite hypnotized by this time, and hastily engaged him. The boys, who were very high-spirited (taking after their mother, I am afraid my readers will suggest), were not prepared to take him seriously. Francis, who took the helico over to meet him at Broxbourne, tried to frighten him by looping the loop as they came back; which was very naughty of him, because he knew it was not allowed to loop the loop even when by himself. Herr Schultz hung on grimly, trusting Francis, which nobody who knew him would have done, for the boy was a very poor driver. Next day I suggested an hour for lessons: “When they like,” said Herr Schultz. I thought it might be well to neglect their likes and dislikes in the matter, but this was apparently unpædagogic: “You not do what he not wills; you trust him, he love you.” The boys decided to go off to the pictures at Buntingford: Herr Schultz accompanied them, sat behind them, and in a slow, level voice instructed them on everything they saw. “It was worse than Mrs. Rowlands lecturing on Venice,” Gervase said afterwards. Finally they broke away and went to the meet; Herr Schultz followed, contributing a stream of information on the habits of dogs. They went bird’s-nesting, and Herr Schultz proved intolerable on the subject of ornithology. Next day the boys volunteered to have a fixed hour for lessons on condition that Herr Schultz would leave them alone the rest of the day, and he came to me beaming: “You trust them,” he said, “they love you.” I am bound to say he was a most successful teacher, using no threat to enforce discipline except that of his company. They rather liked “old Stilts” too, after a time; and with his quite unimaginative, wholly serious manner he became a general favourite—only Lady Combe could not approve of him, because he was “a Roman.” “And a German Roman, too, my dear”—as if that form of the infection were more likely to be catching. They had no other governor till I sent them, at the ages of ten and eleven, to a preparatory school at Bournemouth.