Gloves were off in three minutes. Pessimists, no more than poets, love each other, and even when they work together it is one thing to pessimise congenially with an ancient and tried associate who is also a butt, and another to be pessimised over by an inexperienced junior, even though the latter’s college career may have included more exhibitions—nay, even pot-huntings—than one’s own. The Reverend John did his best to pour water on the flames. Little Hartopp, perceiving that it was pure oil, threw in canfuls of his own, from the wings. In the end, words passed which would have made the Common Room uninhabitable for the future, but that Macrea had written (the Reverend John had seen the letter) saying that his knee was fairly re-knit and he was prepared to take on again at half-term. This happened to be the only date since the Creation beyond which Mr. Brownell’s self-respect would not permit him to stay one hour. It solved the situation, amid puffings and blowings and bitter epigrams, and a most distinguished stateliness of bearing all round till Mr. Brownell’s departure.
“My dear fellow!” said the Reverend John to Macrea, on the first night of the latter’s return. “I do hope there was nothing in my letters to you—you asked me to keep you posted—that gave you any idea King wasn’t doing his best with your House according to his lights?”
“Not in the least,” said Macrea. “I’ve the greatest respect for King, but after all, one’s House is one’s House. One can’t stand it being tinkered with by well-meaning outsiders.”
To Mr. Brownell on Bideford station-platform, the Reverend John’s last words were:
“Well, well. You mustn’t judge us too harshly. I dare say there’s a great deal in what you say. Oh, yes! King’s conduct was inexcusable, absolutely inexcusable! About the smoking? Lamentable, but we must all bow down, more or less, in the House of Rimmon. We have to compete with the Crammers’ Shops.”
To the Head, in the silence of his study, next day: “He didn’t seem to me the kind of animal who’d keep to advantage in our atmosphere. Luckily he lost his temper (King and he are own brothers) and he couldn’t withdraw his resignation.”
“Excellent. After all, it’s only a few pounds to make up. I’ll slip it in under our recent—er—barrack damages. And what do We think of it all, Gillette?”
“We do not think at all—any of us,” said the Reverend John. “Youth is its own prophylactic, thank Heaven.”
And the Head, not usually devout, echoed, “Thank Heaven!”