The prediction that Wynne Rendall would prove a swotter was more than amply borne out by his conduct in the class-room. In most branches of education he displayed voracity for learning to an unusual extent. Latin and Greek delighted his soul, and his form-master, who was not a man of great erudition, was sorely put to it to keep pace with the extraordinary rapidity with which he acquired a knowledge of these dead tongues. His translations were admirable, and he seemed capable of reproducing the original spirit and lilt of the lines into English prose. Horace, Virgil, Homer were more than mere tasks to Wynne; they were delights which breathed of the splendid freedom in thought and action of the old periods which had passed away. To a very large degree he possessed appreciation for what Ruskin so happily terms “the aristocracy of words.” He realized how one word allied to another made for dignity or degradation, and he strove never to commit himself to an expression in writing that did not bear the stamp of honourable currency. From the school library he acquired his taste for the poets—one or another of which he carried with him on all his wanderings and greedily assimilated. Unlike most early readers he did not pin allegiance to any particular writer, but pored over all with equal concentration, carrying away the best from each in his remarkably retentive memory. But for his incurable stupidity in regard to mathematics, it is probable at the age of sixteen he would have been head of the school, but mathematics defeated him at every turn. He hated figures, and it was characteristic that he would never attempt to acquire a better liking for the things he hated. He ignored and passed them over, admitting neither the interest nor the logic that lay in the science of figures. “It is a great pity, Rendall, that you will not concentrate on these matters,” said the Head. “You display ready enough intelligence in other directions.” Wynne shook his head. “I am sorry, sir,” he said, “but I find no satisfaction in mathematics.” “You should feel the satisfaction of doing a thing right.” “The reward doesn’t tempt me, sir. Given that the answer to a most intricate problem proves to be .03885—what has been achieved beyond a row of figures? In after years none will look back and say, ‘He was the man who found this answer,’ for the reason that there is no charm or beauty in his findings. To the eye of the onlooker, sir, .04996 would be none the less pleasing.” “But it would be wrong,” urged the Head. “Nero was wrong in setting fire to Rome, yet people still speak of that.” “They speak in horror, Rendall.” “And a certain amount of admiration, sir. He was artist enough to play upon a harp while the roof beams crackled and fell.” “I am afraid your instance suggests a certain laxity of moral outlook, Rendall, which one can only deplore.” Wynne looked up at the ceiling and smiled.