Mr. Cray put on his most patronizing manner. “My poor Fane, have you never heard of Enoch Arden? Perhaps you’ve never even heard of Tennyson?” “But Swinburne’s good, isn’t he, sir?” “Swinburne is very well,” said Mr. Cray. “Oh, yes, Swinburne will do, if you like rose-jam. But I don’t recommend Swinburne for you, Fane.” Then Mr. Cray addressed his class: “Did you all read ‘Enoch Arden’?” “Yes, sir,” twittered the Upper Fifth. “Fane, however, with that independence of judgment which distinguishes his Latin Prose from, let us say, the prose of Cicero, preferred to read ‘A Forsaken Garden’ by one Swinburne.” The Upper Fifth giggled dutifully. “Perhaps Fane will recite to us his discovery,” said Mr. Cray, scratching his scurfy head with the gnawed end of a penholder. Michael blushed resentfully, and walked back to his desk. “No?” said Mr. Cray with an affectation of great surprise. Then he and the Upper Fifth, contented with their superiority, began to chew and rend some tough Greek particles which ultimately became digestible enough to be assimilated by the Upper Fifth; while Mr. Cray himself purred over his cubs, looking not very unlike a mangy old lioness. “Eight more terms,” groaned Michael to himself. Mr. Cray was not so blind to his pupils’ need for mild intellectual excitement, however much he might scorn the easy emotions of Swinburne. He really grew lyrical over Homeric difficulties, and even spoke enthusiastically of Mr. Mackail’s translation of the Georgics; but always he managed to conceal the nobility of his theme beneath a mass of what he called ‘minor points.’ He would create his own rubbish heap and invite the Upper Fifth to scratch in it for pearls. One day a question arose as to the exact meaning of οὑλοχὑται in Homer. Michael would have been perfectly content to believe that it meant ‘whole barleycorns,’ until Mr. Cray suggested that it might be equivalent to the Latin ‘mola,’ meaning ‘grain coarsely ground.’ An exhausting discussion followed, illustrated by examples from every sort of writer, all of which had to be taken down in notes in anticipation of a still more exhausting essay on the subject. “The meal may be trite,” said Mr. Cray, “but not the subject,” he added, chuckling. “However, I have only touched the fringe of it: you will find the arguments fully set forth in Buttmann’s Lexilogus. Who possesses that invaluable work?” Nobody in the Upper Fifth possessed it, but all anxiously made a note of it, in order to acquire it over the counter of the Book Room downstairs. “No use,” said Mr. Cray. “Buttmann’s Lexilogus is now out of print.” Michael pricked up at this. The phrase leant a curious flavour of Romance to the dull book. “No doubt, however, you will be able to obtain it second-hand,” added Mr. Cray.