It was therefore from the traditional place, at the head of the oak table, that Mr. Flaggon made the remarks which provoked a scene memorable in the annals of Chiltern. It had been borne in upon him, he said, by events in the preceding Term, that the long interval between dinner and chapel was fraught with considerable danger. The danger was obviously greater in the summer Term than in any other, when lock-up was later; and, some time in March, he proposed to consider a complete rearrangement of the time-table for the day. But, for the present, he wished to make as little change as possible. He was therefore going to ask housemasters to arrange for a preparation in their houses at half-past four on Sundays. Tea would be at 5.30 and chapel at the usual time. Mr. Chowdler had come to the meeting in the worst of tempers. Apart from the fact that he was deeply attached to the _status quo_, he had been deprived of his golf, and, being a man full of habit of body, he could not afford to miss his exercise. And so, the headmaster had scarcely finished speaking, when he broke in with no attempt to conceal his anger. “It has always been customary,” he said, “to consult housemasters on matters of this kind before raising them at a general meeting.” Mr. Flaggon lifted his eyebrows slightly, but replied quite calmly: “I shall be glad to consider any difficulties that may be put to me in private; but, in a matter of this kind, on which I feel very strongly, I must decide for myself and in accordance with my own judgment.” “Do I understand,” cried Mr. Chowdler, raising his voice and glaring at his chief, “that we are to have this ill-considered ukase thrust down our throats without discussion? Because, if so, let me say that that is an indignity to which we are _not_ accustomed.” “I think I have made it clear,” said Mr. Flaggon, “that I do not propose to take a vote on this question, and I have stated my reasons: I wish to see the experiment tried.” “In that case,” said Mr. Chowdler, turning half round in his chair so as to face his colleagues, “I, for one, shall decline to obey.” “I have noted your refusal with extreme regret,” replied Mr. Flaggon, so quietly that the words would hardly have been heard in the more distant parts of the room, if it had not been for the intense silence that prevailed. And then, before anybody had recovered from the surprise and shock, he passed on to the second item on the programme. The rest of the business was dispatched rapidly and without any of the irrelevant comment which was usually a feature of masters’ meetings. Everybody was anxious to get away, to breathe the fresh air, and to take stock of his own and other people’s impressions. “Chowdler’s downed him,” whispered Mr. Rankin, as the masters trooped into the great quadrangle with grave and anxious faces. “I don’t know,” replied the younger man thus addressed. “It can’t end there. And,” he added, “it _ought_ not to end there.”