of scattering in young minds the seed of corruption," Walkham remarked.

"If they happen to understand," Clarke observed thoughtfully. "I can
very well conceive of a lecherous text-book of the calculus, or of a
reporter's story of a picnic in which burnt, under the surface,
undiscoverable, save to the initiate, the tragic passion of Tristram and
Iseult."




VI


Several weeks had elapsed since the conversation in Reginald Clarke's
studio. The spring was now well advanced and had sprinkled the meadows
with flowers, and the bookshelves of the reviewers with fiction. The
latter Ernest turned to good account, but from the flowers no poem
blossomed forth. In writing about other men's books, he almost forgot
that the springtide had brought to him no bouquet of song. Only now and
then, like a rippling of water, disquietude troubled his soul.

The strange personality of the master of the house had enveloped the
lad's thoughts with an impenetrable maze. The day before Jack had come
on a flying visit from Harvard, but even he was unable to free Ernest's
soul from the obsession of Reginald Clarke.

Ernest was lazily stretching himself on a couch, waving the smoke of
his cigarette to Reginald, who was writing at his desk.