"A little ungrateful, my dear boy," he declared, "a little ungrateful
that, I think. Your confidence in yourself pleases me, though. You
think you could pass your examinations?"

"I did a set of papers last week," the boy replied. "On the given
percentages I came out twelfth or better. Mr. Brown assured me
that I could go in for them at any moment. He promised to write
you about it before he left."

Mr. Fentolin nodded gently.

"Now I come to think of it, I did have a letter from Mr. Brown,"
he remarked. "Rather an impertinence for a tutor, I thought it.
He devoted three pages towards impressing upon me the necessity of
your adopting some sort of a career."

"He wrote because he thought it was his duty," the boy said doggedly.

"So you want to be a soldier," Mr. Fentolin continued musingly.
"Well, well, why not? Our picture galleries are full of them.
There has been a Fentolin in every great battle for the last five
hundred years. Sailors, too--plenty of them--and just a few
diplomatists. Brave fellows! Not one, I fancy," he added, "like
me--not one condemned to pass their days in a perambulator. You
are a fine fellow, Gerald--a regular Fentolin. Getting on for
six feet, aren't you?"

"Six feet two, sir."

"A very fine fellow," Mr. Fentolin repeated. "I am not so sure