his taste. It was "runaway stuff"; nervous and sensuous; it opened up
too many vistas, philological and social, for his positive mind to
assimilate with comfort. Those particles alone--there was something
ambiguous, something almost disreputable, in their jocund pliability,
their readiness to lend themselves to improper uses. But Latin--ah,
Latin was different! Even at his preparatory school, where he was known
as a swot of the first water, he had displayed an unhealthy infatuation
for that tongue; he loved its cold, lapidary construction; and while
other boys played football or cricket, this withered little fellow used
to lark about with a note-book, all by himself, torturing sensible
English into its refractory and colourless periods and elaborating,
without the help of a Gradus, those inept word-mosaics which are called
Latin verses. "Good fun," he used to say, "and every bit as exciting as
algebra," as though that constituted a recommendation. Often the good
form master shook his head, and enquired anxiously whether he was
feeling unwell, or had secret troubles of any kind.

"Oh, no, sir," he would then reply, with a funny little laugh. "Thank
you, sir. But please, sir! Would you mind telling me whether PECUNIA>
really comes from PECUS? Because Adams minor (another swot) ways it
doesn't."

Later on, at the University, he used the English language for the sake
of convenience--in order to make himself understood by Dons and Heads of
Colleges. His thoughts, his dreams, were in Latin.

Such a man, arriving almost penniless on Nepenthe, might have passed a
torpid month or two, then drifted into the Club-set and gone to the
dogs altogether. Latin saved him. He took to studying those earlier
local writers who often composed in that tongue. The Jesuitical