"Come now," Jack could not help saying, "is your memory giving way?
Don't you remember your own days in college--especially the mathematical
examinations? You know that your marks came always pretty near the
absolute zero."

"Jack," cried Ernest in honest indignation, "not the last time. The last
time I didn't flunk."

"No, because your sonnet on Cartesian geometry roused even the
math-fiend to compassion. And don't you remember Professor Squeeler,
whose heart seemed to leap with delight whenever he could tell you that,
in spite of incessant toil on your part, he had again flunked you in
physics with fifty-nine and a half per cent.?"

"And he wouldn't raise the mark to sixty! God forgive him,--I cannot."

Here their exchange of reminiscences was interrupted. There was a stir.
The little potentates of conversation hastened to their seats, before
their minions had wholly deserted them.

The king was moving to his throne!

Assuredly Reginald Clarke had the bearing of a king. Leisurely he took
his seat under the canopy.

A hush fell on the audience; not a fan stirred as he slowly unfolded his
manuscript.