“That kind of man,” said Mr. Leeming, “is at the root of the whole business.”
Dr. Downton was almost angry. “Yon know, Leeming, you’re talking bosh. The thing’s solving itself. All over the world schoolboys are getting wider interests at school. In their homes they’re taking a more equal place in family life. It is no longer a matter of being seen and not heard. They’re being treated like human beings. The more you treat them like human beings the less likely they are to behave like young animals. And the greatest mistake of all is to keep on talking to them about it. Every boy of a certain age is curious, and quite naturally curious, about his physical possibilities. So is every girl. . . .”
“My dear Downton,” said Leeming flushing, “I shall be obliged if you won’t—er—pursue the subject. You make it painful. . . .”
“Very well,” said Downton gathering up the skirts of his gown.
“Thank you.” Leeming left the room. Selby smiled lazily.
“If only,” he said, “if only our friend Leeming had ever enjoyed the advantage of a really bad woman’s society.”
II
Unconscious of the doom which was being forged for their chastisement in the white heat of Mr. Leeming’s troubled brain, the school lay scattered along the perimeter of the cricket-field waiting for the players to emerge from the pavilion. They came, and the great expanse of green was made more beautiful by their scattered figures. Everything in the game seemed spacious and smooth and clean—the white flannels of the players; the paler green of the rolled pitch; the new red ball; the sharp click of the bat. Before lunch the school had lost three wickets, but now it seemed as if a stand were to be made. The studious Carr, the head of Edwin’s house, was batting steadily; while Gilson, the school’s most showy batsman, who would play for Surrey in the holidays, was beginning to get set. Edwin and Widdup had their deck-chairs side by side, and Douglas, for want of Griffin, absent on some deeper business, had pitched himself near them, reclining upon a positive divan of downy cushions.
The winnings of the house sweepstake, easily gained, and therefore easily to be spent, supplied the natural accompaniment of ices and ginger beer or that inimitable compound of both that was known as the Strawberry Cooler. Under such circumstances the mere fact of lazy existence was a pleasure. Even when the cautious Carr was bowled, the long partnership ended, and the St. Luke’s wickets began to fall like autumn leaves, the serene beauty of the day was scarcely clouded.
In the middle of the afternoon the figure of Mr. Leeming drifted along the edge of the field. He halted on the path immediately in front of Edwin with his back to the spectators, considerably incommoding Douglas’s view of the play. “Old Beelzebub’s a friend of yours, isn’t he, Ingleby?” said Douglas lazily. “You might tell him that he isn’t made of glass.” But Mr. Leeming, suddenly aware of a voice behind him, turned and came towards them, smiling.