of dancing. Dr. Tootle took upon himself the English branches, and,
of course, the arduous duty of general superintendence. He was a
very tall, thin, cadaverous, bald-headed man. Somehow or other he
had the reputation of having, at an earlier stage in his career,
grievously over-exerted his brain in literary labour; parents were
found, on the whole, ready to accept this fact as an incontestable
proof of the doctor's fitness to fill his present office, though it
resulted in entire weeks of retreat from the school-room under the
excuse of fearful headaches. The only known product of the literary
toil which had had such sad results was a very small English
Grammar, of course used in the school, and always referred to by the
doctor as "my little compendium."

Now and then, Waymark sought refuge from the loneliness of his room
in a visit to his colleagues at the Academy. The masters'
sitting-room was not remarkable for cosiness, even when a fire burnt
in the grate and the world of school was for the time shut out. The
floor was uncarpeted, the walls illustrated only with a few maps and
diagrams. There was a piano, whereon Herr Egger gave his music
lessons. Few rooms in existence could have excelled this for
draughts; at all times there came beneath the door a current of wind
which pierced the legs like a knife; impossible to leave loose
papers anywhere with a chance of finding them in the same place two
minutes after.

When Waymark entered this evening, he found his colleagues seated
together in silence. Mr. Philip Q'Gree--"fill-up" was his own
pronunciation of the name--would have been worse than
insignificant in appearance, but for the expression of good-humour
and geniality which possessed his irregular features. He was