son, in a tone of laughing disgust.

'But he certainly is graceful, Buckland,' persisted the lady.

'And in the meantime,' remarked Mr. Warricombe, drily, 'we are all
awaiting the young gentleman's pleasure.'

'Of course; he enjoys it. Almost all the people on that row belong
to him--father, mother, sisters, brothers, uncles, aunts, and
cousins to the fourth degree. Look at their eyes fondly fixed upon
him! Now he pretends to loosen his collar at the throat, just for a
change of attitude--the puppy!'

'My dear!' remonstrated his mother, with apprehensive glance at her
neighbours.

'But he is really clever, isn't he, Buckland?' asked the sister, her
name was Sidwell.

'After a fashion. I shouldn't wonder if he takes a dozen or two
prizes. It's all a knack, you know.'

'Where is your friend Peak?' Mr. Warricombe made inquiry.

But at this moment Mr. Chilvers abandoned his endeavour and became
seated, allowing the Principal to rise, manuscript in hand. Buckland
leaned back with an air of resignation to boredom; his father bent
slightly forward, with lips close pressed and brows wrinkled; Mrs
Warricombe widened her eyes, as if hearing were performed with those
organs, and assumed the smile she would have worn had the speaker