III.
George laughed. “Same old dressing-down,” he said. “Don't you ever alter the formula?”
“It's very effective,” the Dean replied. “That's the sixth this morning. Unfortunately I couldn't remember in what subject that boy had failed; so he didn't get the best part—the part about that being the one subject of all others which, if failed in, predicted ruin.”
“It was biology in my case,” George told him. “I trembled with funk.”
“I think most of you do. It's fortunate that all you men when you first come up are afraid of your fathers. It gives us a certain amount of hold over you. If the thing were done properly, both at the 'Varsities and the hospitals, there would be a system of marks and reports just as at schools. You are only boys when you first come up, and you should be treated as boys; instead, you are left free and irresponsible. It ruins dozens of men every year.”
“Perhaps that's why I'm here now,” George responded. “You know I got ploughed?”
The Dean told George how sorry he had been to hear it. He questioned: “Bad luck, I suppose? I thought it was a sitter for you this time.”
“Yes, rotten luck.”
“It's unfortunate, you know. You would have got a house appointment. I'm afraid you will miss that mow. There will be a crowd of very hot men up with you in October, junior to you, who will get the vacancies. What will you do?”
George shrugged and laughed.
The Dean frowned; interpreted the shrug. “Well, you should care,” he said. “You ought to be looking around you. Won't your uncle help you to buy a partnership?”
“We are on worse terms than ever after this failure. Not he.”
“And you're not trying to be on good terms, I suppose?”
“Not I.”
“You are a remarkably silly young man. You want balance, Leicester, you want balance. It would be the making of you to have some serious purpose in life. You will run against something of the kind soon—you'll get engaged, perhaps, and then you'll regret your happy-go-lucky ways.” He fumbled amongst a pile of correspondence and drew out a letter. “Now, look here, I was thinking of you only a few moments ago. Here's a letter from a man who—who—where is it?—Ah, yes—If you could raise 400 pounds by the time you are qualified I could put you on to a splendid thing.”
“Not the remotest chance,” said George. “The serious purpose must wait. I—”
The Dean waved a hand that asked silence; consulted the letter. “This is from a man in practice at a place called Runnygate—one of these rising seaside resorts—Hampshire—great friend of mine. He's got money, and he's going to chuck it—doesn't suit his wife. I told him I'd find a purchaser if he would leave it with me. Merely nominal—only 400 pounds. He says that in a year or so there'll be a small fortune in the practice, because a company is taking the place over to develop it. You shall have first refusal. Come now, pull yourself together, Leicester.”
George laughed. He stood up. “Thanks, I refuse now. What on earth's the good?”
“Rubbish,” said the Dean. “Think over that serious interest in life. You never know your luck.”
George moved to the door. “I know my luck all right,” he laughed. “Never mind, I'm not grumbling with it.”