“I expect he would if you explain who you are.”
It was not till the end of dinner that evening that
any reference was made in the common-room to the subject
that was in all their minds. Then it was Sighs
who asked:
“Well, what did you think of our new head?”
They thought of the conversation at luncheon.
It was hardly a conversation; it was a monologue.
Perkins had talked incessantly. He talked very
quickly, with a flow of easy words and in a deep,
resonant voice. He had a short, odd little laugh
which showed his white teeth. They had followed
him with difficulty, for his mind darted from subject
to subject with a connection they did not always catch.
He talked of pedagogics, and this was natural enough;
but he had much to say of modern theories in Germany
which they had never heard of and received with misgiving.
He talked of the classics, but he had been to Greece,
and he discoursed of archaeology; he had once spent
a winter digging; they could not see how that helped
a man to teach boys to pass examinations, He talked
of politics. It sounded odd to them to hear him
compare Lord Beaconsfield with Alcibiades. He
talked of Mr. Gladstone and Home Rule. They realised
that he was a Liberal. Their hearts sank.
He talked of German philosophy and of French fiction.
They could not think a man profound whose interests
were so diverse.
It was Winks who summed up the general impression
and put it into a form they all felt conclusively
damning. Winks was the master of the upper third,
a weak-kneed man with drooping eye-lids, He was too
tall for his strength, and his movements were slow
and languid. He gave an impression of lassitude,
and his nickname was eminently appropriate.
“He’s very enthusiastic,” said Winks.
Enthusiasm was ill-bred. Enthusiasm was ungentlemanly.
They thought of the Salvation Army with its braying
trumpets and its drums. Enthusiasm meant change.
They had goose-flesh when they thought of all the pleasant
old habits which stood in imminent danger. They
hardly dared to look forward to the future.
“He looks more of a gipsy than ever,”
said one, after a pause.
“I wonder if the Dean and Chapter knew that
he was a Radical when they elected him,” another
observed bitterly.
But conversation halted. They were too much disturbed
for words.
When Tar and Sighs were walking together to the Chapter
House on Speech-Day a week later, Tar, who had a bitter
tongue, remarked to his colleague:
“Well, we’ve seen a good many Speech-Days
here, haven’t we? I wonder if we shall
see another.”
Sighs was more melancholy even than usual.
“If anything worth having comes along in the
way of a living I don’t mind when I retire.”
