seats at the tables, and halt at those points to bend down and say a word
or two. It is no disparagement to their kindness that those points are
generally points where personal attractions are. The monotony of the
long spacious rooms and the double lines of faces is agreeably relieved
by these incidents, although so slight.

A veiled lady, who has no companion, goes among the company. It would
seem that curiosity and opportunity have never brought her there before.
She has the air of being a little troubled by the sight, and, as she goes
the length of the tables, it is with a hesitating step and an uneasy
manner. At length she comes to the refectory of the boys. They are so
much less popular than the girls that it is bare of visitors when she
looks in at the doorway.

But just within the doorway, chances to stand, inspecting, an elderly
female attendant: some order of matron or housekeeper. To whom the lady
addresses natural questions: As, how many boys? At what age are they
usually put out in life? Do they often take a fancy to the sea? So,
lower and lower in tone until the lady puts the question: "Which is
Walter Wilding?"

Attendant's head shaken. Against the rules.

"You know which is Walter Wilding?"

So keenly does the attendant feel the closeness with which the lady's
eyes examine her face, that she keeps her own eyes fast upon the floor,
lest by wandering in the right direction they should betray her.

"I know which is Walter Wilding, but it is not my place, ma'am, to tell