The warnings and insinuations of the agent had prepared me to meet a choleric and overbearing person—one whose manner was an insupportable provocation to those who worked under him. Anything further from the reality cannot be imagined. He was a frail, gentle creature, clean-shaven and round-shouldered, with a bearing which was so courteous that it became almost deprecating. His bushy hair was thickly shot with grey, and his age I should imagine to verge upon sixty. His voice was low and suave, and he walked with a certain mincing delicacy of manner. His whole appearance was that of a kindly scholar, who was more at home among his books than in the practical affairs of the world. “I am sure that we shall be very happy to have your assistance, Mr. Weld,” said he, after a few professional questions. “Mr. Percival Manners left me yesterday, and I should be glad if you could take over his duties to-morrow.” “May I ask if that is Mr. Percival Manners of Selwyn?” I asked. “Precisely. Did you know him?” “Yes; he is a friend of mine.” “An excellent teacher, but a little hasty in his disposition. It was his only fault. Now, in your case, Mr. Weld, is your own temper under good control? Supposing for argument’s sake that I were to so far forget myself as to be rude to you or to speak roughly or to jar your feelings in any way, could you rely upon yourself to control your emotions?” I smiled at the idea of this courteous, little, mincing creature ruffling my nerves. “I think that I could answer for it, sir,” said I. “Quarrels are very painful to me,” said he. “I wish every one to live in harmony under my roof. I will not deny Mr. Percival Manners had provocation, but I wish to find a man who can raise himself above provocation, and sacrifice his own feelings for the sake of peace and concord.” “I will do my best, sir.” “You cannot say more, Mr. Weld. In that case I shall expect you to-night, if you can get your things ready so soon.” I not only succeeded in getting my things ready, but I found time to call at the Benedict Club in Piccadilly, where I knew that I should find Manners if he were still in town. There he was sure enough in the smoking-room, and I questioned him, over a cigarette, as to his reasons for throwing up his recent situation. “You don’t tell me that you are going to Dr. Phelps McCarthy’s Academy?” he cried, staring at me in surprise. “My dear chap, it’s no use. You can’t possibly remain there.” “But I saw him, and he seemed the most courtly, inoffensive fellow. I never met a man with more gentle manners.” “He! oh, he’s all right. There’s no vice in him. Have you seen Theophilus St. James?” “I have never heard the name. Who is he?” “Your colleague. The other master.” “No, I have not seen him.” “_He’s_ the terror. If you can stand him, you have either the spirit of a perfect Christian or else you have no spirit at all. A more perfect bounder never bounded.” “But why does McCarthy stand it?”