"You mustn’t mind him," he said kindly. "Clever Winchester boys are always intolerant—while they are boys. Montagu reads a great deal more than he can digest, and people with indigestion are proverbially cantankerous." Jane-Anne didn’t understand what he meant in the very least, but she felt immediately and immensely comforted. So much so, that she was impelled to speak to Mr. Wycherly of her thoughts when she first came out. "Please, sir," she said, calmly dismissing the merits or demerits of "Home Influence" that seemed so vital a moment ago. "Do you know a piece of poetry about mountains?" "A great deal of poetry has been written about mountains," Mr. Wycherly replied cautiously. "It’s a piece of poetry I want to find," said Jane-Anne, "that I heard many times long ago, and I can’t remember anything about it except that there was mountains. I thought perhaps you’d know it." Here Montagu appeared with a glass of milk and some biscuits. The milk had slopped over on to the biscuits "in some unaccountable way," he explained; but their sopped condition did not spoil them for Jane-Anne, who munched quite happily and smiled her broad ecstatic smile at him to show that she had forgiven his cruel remarks about "Home Influence." Presently the doctor came to see her, and Mrs. Dew fetched her in to be sounded. The moment she had gone Montagu turned upon his guardian, demanding sternly: "Well, isn’t it hopeless squish?" "It is her prize," said Mr. Wycherly gently. "Why, that’s just what she said," Montagu exclaimed in astonishment at his usually logical guardian taking this line. "You will find," said Mr. Wycherly, "as you go through life that it is never safe to abuse things violently before you have realised your hearer’s point of view. You may offend deeply." "You’d have to be jolly dishonest to always think of that," Montagu answered indignantly. "You will be jolly rude and disagreeable if you never think of it," Mr. Wycherly retorted. "Besides, did she ask you for your opinion?" "Well, no—but it seemed such a pity to go on liking such stuff. People must begin to learn what’s good and what’s bad sometime—and I shouldn’t think she’s stupid." "I am quite sure she is not stupid, and I am equally sure that she is painfully sensitive and that you were more than a little stupid not to see it." "Me, stupid!" Montagu repeated in surprise. "No one has ever called me that before." Mr. Wycherly chuckled. "I thought," said he, "that the presence of a young girl among us would be mentally stimulating. She has not been in the house two days and yet, you see, already she has suggested to you new possibilities in yourself. By the way—just make a note of any poems you can think of bearing on mountains." "Why, there are thousands," cried Montagu, aghast. "Sure to be in Wordsworth," said Mr. Wycherly. "Anyway, we’ll mark the places." *CHAPTER X* *FORTUNE’S WHEEL*