Schliemann, I am sorry to say--" he hesitated an instant, and then
added, "Bruder Schliemann is dead."

"Indeed, indeed," said Harris quickly. "I am sorry to hear it." He was
conscious of a faint feeling of distress, but whether it arose from the
news of his old music teacher's death, or--from something else--he could
not quite determine. He gazed down the corridor that lost itself among
shadows. In the street and village everything had seemed so much smaller
than he remembered, but here, inside the school building, everything
seemed so much bigger. The corridor was loftier and longer, more
spacious and vast, than the mental picture he had preserved. His
thoughts wandered dreamily for an instant.

He glanced up and saw the face of the Bruder watching him with a smile
of patient indulgence.

"Your memories possess you," he observed gently, and the stern look
passed into something almost pitying.

"You are right," returned the man of silk, "they do. This was the most
wonderful period of my whole life in a sense. At the time I hated
it--" He hesitated, not wishing to hurt the Brother's feelings.

"According to English ideas it seemed strict, of course," the other said
persuasively, so that he went on.

"--Yes, partly that; and partly the ceaseless nostalgia, and the
solitude which came from never being really alone. In English schools
the boys enjoy peculiar freedom, you know."