"Isn't he ripping, Scissors!" whispered Vernley, during the second course, "and you're alike as two peas." Under encouragement, Marsh was radiant. John felt his father was such a success that he would ask Lindon to the great tea in his study. A little in awe of the hypercritical god, he had held Lindon in reserve, but Marsh had been conquered and that young gentleman was critical and seldom approved of parents. "An outworn institution," he always declared as he observed them on Prize Day. Marsh, however, rose to great heights of enthusiasm and made the tea party an unqualified success. It was true there were not enough buns, owing to the repetition of some guests before the plate reached others, and the kettle fell off the fire and soaked the muffins. These were incidents. The great event was Mr. Dean's stories of Asia Minor. And it was Marsh who kept him going, Marsh with an incredible knowledge of strange Eastern ways, and an insight and intelligent curiosity that amazed John's father. When the bell went and they all trooped away, John knew it had been a triumphant day. Mr. Dean left the next morning. He had business to attend to before his holidays, but he crowned his success with his last act. He asked Vernley, Marsh and Lindon to join him and John for the first fortnight of the summer holidays. He had taken a house at Grasmere for a month, after which he and John were making visits to his friends. With this promise of a happy reunion, Mr. Dean left them. That holiday became a great memory to John. They had a small house that nestled on the side of Fairfield, with wonderful views from all its windows of Grasmere and the lovely little lake, the road to sylvan Rydal, the fern covered side of Red Bank. These were days when they all set out, knapsack on backs, with stout boots, shorts and sweaters, to climb the mountains. And what talk was theirs! There was Marsh with his inimitable irony; where did he gather all that he knew? Mr. Dean said that he must be a reincarnation. "No, please!" retorted Marsh. "Have you noticed how all the cranks who profess to be reincarnations always claim something regal or aristocratic or famous, for their previous existence? Mr. Smith will tell you he was Marc Antony, while little Miss Titmouse, who lives on nuts and uncooked food, and believes bad thoughts make bad weather, will assure you she was mother to Marcus Aurelius, which in some way explains that fellow's incessant moralising. Now if I have to be a reincarnation, let me be original. I don't want to be an echo of Demosthenes, or a second edition of Hannibal, or Henry the Eighth--I'm much more likely to have been dustman to Ptolemy the First, providing there were dustmen in that era."