willing, but his will was not spirited. When things went on that ought
not to have gone on, he generally managed to avoid seeing them, and the
things continued to go on. Altogether, unless Gethryn's rule should act
as a tonic, Leicester's was in a bad way.

The Powers that Be, however, were relying on Gethryn to effect some
improvement. He was in the Sixth, the First Fifteen, and the First
Eleven. Also a backbone was included in his anatomy, and if he made up
his mind to a thing, that thing generally happened.

The Rev. James Beckett, the Headmaster of Beckford, had formed a very
fair estimate of Gethryn's capabilities, and at the moment when
Marriott was drawing the field for the missing one, that worthy was
sitting in the Headmaster's study with a cup in his right hand and a
muffin (half-eaten) in his left, drinking in tea and wisdom
simultaneously. The Head was doing most of the talking. He had led up
to the subject skilfully, and, once reached, he did not leave it. The
text of his discourse was the degeneracy of Leicester's.

'Now, you know, Gethryn--another muffin? Help yourself. You know,
Reynolds--well, he was a capital boy in his way, capital, and I'm sure
we shall all miss him very much--_but_ he was not a good head of a
House. He was weak. Much too weak. Too easy-going. You must avoid that,
Gethryn. Reynolds....' And much more in the same vein. Gethryn left the
room half an hour later full of muffins and good resolutions. He met
Marriott at the fives-courts.

'Where have you been to?' asked Marriott. 'I've been looking for you
all over the shop.'