As Messrs. Rankin and Grady were both Cambridge men, the pleasantry fell flat, and there was an awkward silence, till Mr. Tipham, lifting his eyebrows again, said in his most condescending manner: “Ought one to be amused?” And, though Mr. Bent tried to look unconcerned, everybody realised that he had been rapped rather smartly over the knuckles. After this unfortunate incident there was a general feeling of constraint, which lasted through the rest of dinner. But when Mr. Chase had withdrawn to read prayers to his house, and cigars had been lit in the sitting-room, Mr. Tipham unbent once more and became enthusiastic over the merits of the post-impressionists--the dazzling designs of Van Googlen, the superb greens of le Beaupère, and the masterly way in which Grummer painted flesh with one stroke of a glue-brush. “I don’t count him amongst the greatest masters,” said Mr. Bent, who had recovered his equanimity, “because he can’t paint pimples.” “Perhaps,” replied Mr. Tipham loftily, “you have never seen his ‘Lepers bathing.’” “No, I haven’t,” said Mr. Bent warmly, “and I can’t say that I want to.” “But, in that case,” remarked Mr. Tipham, “you are hardly in a position to judge, are you?” Soon after ten, Messrs. Bent, Rankin, and Grady rose to go. Their host escorted them to the door with rather a wan look, for Mr. Tipham, instead of following their example, had just lit a fresh cigarette and dropped into the easy-chair vacated by Mr. Bent. “Conceited idiot!” said Mr. Bent, when the three men were in the street. “He has a lot to learn about boys,” added Mr. Grady, with a shake of his head. “Wants a good scrubbing with soap and water, inside and out,” growled Mr. Rankin. “But,” he added, afterwards, privately to Mr. Grady, “old Bent didn’t get much change out of him.” As for Mr. Tipham, he continued to smoke cigarettes and instruct his host in the first principles of art till well after midnight. Among the boys Mr. Tipham was generally regarded as a freak, and his nickname, “The Super-tramp,” could hardly be regarded as flattering. But he had his disciples. Mind at Chiltern was held in little esteem, and, where it existed, uncongenial surroundings were apt to turn it sour. There were generally a few boys in the highest forms (for the most part boys of inferior physique and precocious interests) who were always in a state of latent revolt against a system which left them out of account. They repaid contempt with scorn, and the scorn was all the bitterer because it seldom dared to express itself in words and had to ferment inwardly.