'Anywhere before you went to Clifton?' he enquired.
'Only private schools.'
The recollection of the platitudes which he had been delivering, under the impression that he was talking to an entirely raw beginner, made Gethryn feel slightly uncomfortable. What must this wanderer, who had seen men and cities, have thought of his harangue?
'Why did you leave Harrow?' asked he.
'Sacked,' was the laconic reply.
Have you ever, asks a modern philosopher, gone upstairs in the dark, and trodden on the last step when it wasn't there? That sensation and the one Gethryn felt at this unexpected revelation were identical. And the worst of it was that he felt the keenest desire to know why Harrow had seen fit to dispense with the presence of his uncle.
'Why?' he began. 'I mean,' he went on hurriedly, 'why did you leave Wellington?'
'Sacked,' said Farnie again, with the monotonous persistence of a Solomon Eagle.
Gethryn felt at this juncture much as the unfortunate gentleman in Punch must have felt, when, having finished a humorous story, the point of which turned upon squinting and red noses, he suddenly discovered that his host enjoyed both those peculiarities. He struggled manfully with his feelings for a time. Tact urged him to discontinue his investigations and talk about the weather. Curiosity insisted upon knowing further details. Just as the struggle was at its height, Farnie came unexpectedly to the rescue.
'It may interest you,' he said, 'to know that I was not sacked from Clifton.'