It was on one of these cloudy days, when paradoxically the sun was shining brilliantly in the pure blue south-western sky, that Glyn and Singh were strolling down the grounds together, looking straight before them, with the full intention of driving the school-troubles out of their minds for the time being.
“What’s the good of worrying about it, Singhy?” Glyn had said. “I know it’s a horrible nuisance, with the suspicion and unpleasantry, and it was a very beautiful thing, which I am very, very sorry has been lost; but let’s try and forget it.”
“Oh, who can forget it?” cried Singh impatiently.
“Well, I know it’s hard work, and it all seems like a nasty little bit of grit in the school machine. I can’t get on with a single lesson without your wretched belt getting into it.”
“My wretched belt!” cried Singh hotly.
“Now, don’t get into a passion, old chap. That isn’t being English. You must learn not to put so much pepper in one’s daily curry.”
“Oh, I am not cold-blooded like you. You English are so horribly tame.”
“Oh no, we are not,” said Glyn. “We have got plenty of pepper in us when we want it; but that’s where education comes in. I don’t mean Dr Bewley’s stuff and all we learn of the masters; but, as my dad says, the cultivation that makes a fellow an English gentleman. And do you know what that means?”
“Oh, bother! No.”
“Then I’ll tell you, Singhy. It’s learning to be able to keep the stopper in the cruet till it’s really wanted. Do you understand?”