Ern could have been a leader among his mates, had he chosen to assume authority. His quiet, his distinction, his happy manner, and above all the fact that he was a promising cricketer and had made half a century on the Frying Pan at Lewes for the Sussex Colts against the Canterbury Wanderers, marked him out. But Ern would not lead. He spent his evenings in the main at home rather than in the lighted streets, and was at his happiest sitting in the study opposite his father. On these occasions the two rarely spoke, but they enjoyed a silent communion that was eminently satisfying to them both. Just sometimes the father would touch the revolving book-case on his right; take out one of the little blue poetry books Ern knew so well, and read _The Scholar Gypsy_ or _The Happy Warrior_. Ern loved that, but he was far too indolent to pursue the readings himself. When his father had finished, he would return the book to its place and say, "You should read a bit yourself, Boy-lad," and Ern's invariable reply would be, "I will, dad, when I got the time." But Ern was one of those who never had the time and never would have. Then the two would relapse into smoke and silence and vague dreams, out of which Edward Caspar's voice would emerge, "Where's Alfred?" To which Ern would answer with a faint smirk, "Studyin in the kitchen." Ern's tendency to be a masher, as the phrase of the day went, delighted Mr. Pigott. He looked on it as the best sign he had yet detected in the boy. "Who's the lady, Ern?" he chaffed, meeting the lad. The boy smiled shyly. At such moments, in spite of his plainness, he looked beautiful. "Haven't got one, sir," he said. It was true, too. His attitude towards girls was unlike that of his mates. He neither chirped at them in the streets, nor avoided them aggressively, nor was self-conscious in their presence. He was always friendly with them, even affectionate; but he went no farther. Some of the Old Town maidens wished he would. But, in fact, this was not Ern's weakness. The Destroyer, who lies in wait to undo us all, if we give him but a crevice through which to creep into our citadel, was taking the line of least resistance, as he does in every case. There began to be rumours in Old Town. His father's weakness, known to all, lent these rumours wing. In Churchy Beachbourne, as the enemy called the town by reason of the number and variety of its consecrated buildings, people were swift to believe, eager to hand on their beliefs. Prebendary Willcocks--which was his proper title--or Canon Willcocks--as he had taught the locality to call him--who had reasons of his own for disliking Edward Caspar, heard and shook his aristocratic head, repeating the rumour to all and sundry in a lowered voice. The Lady Augusta Willcocks, that indefatigable worker in the parish for God and the Tory Party, entirely lacking in her husband's delicate feeling, echoed it resonantly. Mr. Pigott was honestly aghast.