Notwithstanding, his career at St. Peter's was of average merit. George was now in the sixth year of his studies; and by the third part of his final examination, was alone delayed from the qualification which would bring him freedom from his uncle's irksome rule. VI. His attempt at this last examination had been concluded upon this July day that opens our history, and thus we return to Mr. Marrapit, to George, and to the line of smoke uprising from the tobacco. Mr. Marrapit indicated the smouldering wedge. George bent forward. “Tobacco,” he announced. “My nose informed me. My eyes affirm. Yours?” “I am afraid so.” “My simple rule. In the vegetable garden you may smoke; here you may not. Is it so hard to observe?” “I quite forgot myself.” Mr. Marrapit cried: “Adjust that impression. You forgot me. Consistently you forget me. My desires, my interests are nothing to you.” “It's a rotten thing to make a fuss about.” “That is why I make a fuss. It _is_ a rotten thing. A disgusting and a noisome thing. Bury it.” Into a bed of soft mould George struck a sullen heel; kicked the tobacco towards the pit. Mr. Marrapit chanted over the obsequies: “I provide you with the enormous expanse of my vegetable garden in which to smoke. Yet upon my little acre you intrude. I am Naboth.” Ahab straightened his back; sighed heavily. Naboth started against the prick of a sudden recollection: “I had forgotten. Your examination?” George half turned away. The bitterest moment of a sad day was come. He growled: “Pipped.” “_Pipped?_” “Pilled.” “_Pilled?_” “Spun.” “_Spun?”_ “Three months.” Mr. Marrapit put his hands to his head: “I shall go mad. My brain reels beneath these conundrums. I implore English.” The confession of defeat is a thousandfold more bitter when made to unkind ears. George paled a little; spoke very clearly: “I failed. I was referred for three months.” “I am Job,” groaned Mr. Marrapit. “I expected this. The strain is unendurable. It is unnatural. The next chance shall be your last. What is the fee for re-examination?” “Five guineas.” “My God!” said Mr. Marrapit. He tottered away up the path. CHAPTER II Excursions In Melancholy. I. Gloom brooded over Herons' Holt that evening. Gloom hung thickly about the rooms: blanketed conversation; veiled eyes that might have sparkled; choked appetites. Nevertheless this was an atmosphere in which one member of the household felt most comfortable. Margaret, Mr. Marrapit's only child, was nineteen; of sallow complexion, petite, pretty; with large brown eyes in which sat always a constant quest--an entreaty, a wistful yearning.