Pocket made more valiant attempts. A parlour billiard-table, standing against the wall, supplied an irresistible topic. “We have a full-size table at home,” he said, and could have mutilated his tongue that instant. “I like a small one best,” he assured the doctor, who shook his head and smiled. “Honestly, sir, and snob-cricket better than the real thing! I’m no good at real games.” The statement was too true, but not the preference. “That must be awkward for you, at an English public school,” was the doctor’s comment. Pocket heaved an ingenuous sigh. It was hateful. He blamed the asthma as far as modesty would permit. He was modest enough in his breakfast-table talk, yet nervously egotistical, and apt to involve himself in lengthy explanations. He had two types of listener—the dry and the demure—to all he said. “And they let you come up to London alone!” remarked Dr. Baumgartner when he got a chance. “But it wasn’t their fault that I——” Pocket stopped at a glance from his host, and plunged into profuse particulars exonerating his house-master, but was cut short again. Evidently the niece was not to know where he had spent the night. “I suppose there are a number of young men at your—establishment?” said the doctor, exchanging a glance with Miss Platts. “There are over four hundred boys,” replied Pocket, a little puzzled. “And how many keepers do they require?” A grin apologised for the word. “There must be over thirty masters,” returned Pocket more pointedly than before. He was not going to stand chaff about his public school from a mad German doctor. “And they arm you for the battle of life with Latin and Greek, eh?” “Not necessarily; there’s a Modern Side. You can learn German if you like!” said Pocket, not without contempt. “Do you?” “I don’t like,” said the boy gratuitously. “Then we must stick to your excellent King’s English.” Pocket turned a trifle sulky. He felt he had not scored in this little passage. Then he reflected upon the essential and extraordinary kindness which had brought him to a decent breakfast-table that morning. That made him ashamed; nor could he have afforded to be too independent just yet, even had he been so disposed in his heart. His asthma was a beast that always growled in the background; he never knew when it would spring upon him with a roar. Breakfast pacified the brute; hot coffee always did; but the effects soon wore off, and the boy was oppressed again, yet deadly weary, long before it was time for him to go to Welbeck Street. “Is there really nothing you can take?” asked Dr. Baumgartner, standing over him in the drawing-room, where Pocket sat hunched up in the big easy-chair. “Nothing now, I’m afraid, unless I could get some of those cigarettes. And Dr. Bompas would kick up an awful row!” “But it’s inhuman. I’ll go and get them myself. He should prescribe for such an emergency.”