“I also have to see what can be done for Quong Ho. I want him to come up next term. Has the college ever had an undergraduate who has come up with a knowledge of Elliptic Functions?” “God bless my soul!” ejaculated Sheepshanks, in interested astonishment. “He’s a wonder,” laughed Baltazar. “I ought to know, because I’ve taught him daily for ten years. Well, he’ll be on your list, if you’ll have him. He’s a dear creature. Manners like a Hidalgo. Mind cultivated in the best of Chinese and English literature. And speaks English like his favourite author, Dr. Johnson.” Sheepshanks smiled, a very pleasant smile, in which every wrinkle of his dry brown face seemed to have a part. “How you keep your enthusiasms, Baltazar!” “Quong Ho is worth them. You’ll see. As soon as he’s fit for it, I’ll send him to you. You set him last June’s Tripos Papers—Part II, if you like. I’ll bet you anything he’ll floor them. Of course I’m enthusiastic,” he said, after re-lighting his pipe, which had gone out. “I’ve no kith or kin in the world. I’ve adopted Quong Ho as my intellectual son and heir.” Sheepshanks rose, walked to the open window deliberately and looked out. Presently he turned. “It seems strange,” said he, “that you should adopt a Chinaman, when your English son is giving great promise of following in your footsteps.” Baltazar regarded him in a puzzled way. Then he laughed. “My stepson. I’m afraid, my dear Sheepshanks, when I left the mother I left her son. One of the defects of my qualities is honesty. I may be brutal, but I can’t take a sentimental interest in the son of old Doon.” “The man I’m talking about,” said Sheepshanks, in the precise clipped, nasal manner under which Baltazar remembered many a delinquent and uppish pupil to have wilted in the old days, “isn’t called Doon. His name is Baltazar. He came up with a Minor Scholarship over the way”—he waved a hand, indicating the grey wing of the neighbouring college visible through the window—“and he was the most promising freshman of his year.” Baltazar rose too. “I don’t know what on earth you’re talking about. I don’t suppose I’m the only Baltazar left in England. He can be no son of mine. It’s idiotic. You ought to know.” “I do know,” said Sheepshanks. Baltazar’s eyes flashed in amazement and he made a stride towards him. “What do you know? What are you suggesting?” “A child was born here in Cambridge, three months after you left us.” Something almost physical seemed to hit Baltazar between the eyes, partially stunning him. He felt his way to the nearest chair and sat down. “My God!” said he. “Oh, my God!” He remained for some time, his head on his hands, overwhelmed by the significance of the revelation. At last he sprang suddenly to his feet.