“Curious,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, purring more benignly than ever--“Curious not to know where one was educated. Yet, perhaps it is immaterial. One board school must be very like another. What is your age?” The boy’s heart gave a leap. This question was unmistakably in the programme. “E-eighteen y-years and f-fifteen days, sir,” he said. “How odd,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, whose delightful simper expanded to the region of the smile. “What a curious computation. One had no idea that the Board School was so precise in these matters. I must mention this to my friend Arnold. By the way, I showed my friend Arnold your nice letter. He did not consider it typical of the Board School. He said the style had a flavour of latinity. Do they provide for instruction in Latin in the Board School curriculum?” “I--I--I d-don’t t-think I know, sir,” said the boy. The question was not in the programme. “Then perhaps we might assume that they don’t,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett. “Perhaps the pleasing flavour of latinity in your epistolary style is due to one of those mysterious side currents of descent which continually perplex the best biographers.” Mr. Octavius Crumpett’s manner of saying this seemed to be designed to suggest that if his natural power of mind had betrayed him into saying anything unusual, he hoped it would be understood that the solecism of which he was guilty was not due to ignorance of the foremost practice, but was rather the fruit of uncontrollable natural forces. “You do not look very robust,” he said, looking at the frail figure steadily through the glass that rendered his right eye so formidable. “Are you used to hard work?” “I have determined, sir, to inure my frame to the hardest labour,” said the boy. This question was in the programme. “The English they impart at the Board School,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, “is sound and wholesome, if a trifle bookish. I think some of our public schools might copy their methods with advantage. I must speak to Arnold. I wish your chest was a bit broader, my boy,” he said kindly, “and that your cheeks were not so pale, and your eyes were not so sunken, because in other respects you do not seem to be unworthy of the traditions of this house. Do you mind showing me your finger-nails?” This request was not in the programme, but by now the boy had obtained sufficient self-command to enable him to pluck off his gloves nervously. Of late he had been compelled to wear gloves constantly because he could never keep his hands warm. In the detached but efficient manner of one accustomed to immolate his private feelings upon the altar of duty, Mr. Octavius Crumpett scrutinized each of the cold and fragile hands, through which shone the delicate veins.