“Oh, well”—cough—cough—“we can’t all be top”—cough—cough—“but it’s a pity you should be so very low down”—cough—cough—“you’re a Scholar too, which makes it much worse. Never mind. Good boy at heart”—cough— cough—“better luck in your next form”—cough—cough. “Hope you’ll enjoy yourself on your holidays.” “Good-bye, sir. Thanks awfully,” said Michael. He turned away from the well-loved class-room of old Caryll that still echoed with the laughter of the Upper Fourth A. “And don’t work too hard”—cough—cough, was Mr. Caryll’s last joke. In the corridor Michael caught up the lantern-jawed boy who had prophesied this year’s pleasure at the beginning of last autumn. “Just been saying good-bye to old Christmas,” Michael volunteered. “He’s a topper,” said Lantern-jaws. “The best old boy that ever lived. I wish I was going to be in his form again next term.” “So do I,” said Michael. “We had a clinking good time. So long. Hope you’ll have decent holidays.” “So long,” said the lantern-jawed boy lugubriously, dropping most of his mathematical books. “Same to you.” When Michael was at home, he took a new volume of Henty into the garden and began to read. Suddenly he found he was bored by Henty. This knowledge shocked him for the moment. Then he went indoors and put For Name and Fame, or Through Afghan Passes back on the shelf. He surveyed the row of Henty’s books gleaming with olivine edges, and presently he procured brown paper and with Cook’s assistance wrapped up the dozen odd volumes. At the top he placed a slip of paper on which was written ‘Presented to the Boys’ Library by C. M. S. Fane.’ Michael was now in a perplexity for literary recreation, until he remembered Don Quixote. Soon he was deep in that huge volume, out of the dull world of London among the gorges and chasms and waterfalls of Castile. Boyhood’s zenith had been attained: Michael’s imagination was primed for strange emotions. Chapter V: _Incense_ S TELLA came back from Germany less foreign-looking than Michael expected, and he could take a certain amount of pleasure in her company at Bournemouth, For a time they were well matched, as they walked with their mother under the pines. Once, as they passed a bunch of old ladies on a seat, Stella said to Michael: “Did you hear what those people said?” Michael had not heard, so Stella whispered: “They said ‘What good-looking children!’ Shall we turn back and walk by them again?” “Whatever for?” Michael demanded. “Oh, I don’t know,” said Stella, flapping the big violet bows in her chestnut hair. “Only I like to hear people talking about me. I think it’s interesting. I always try to hear what they say when I’m playing.”