TheCompleteMemoirsOfGeorgeSherston

Evelyn when our rattle-trap conveyance was grinding
briskly down the gravel road to the lodge gates.

"Yes," I replied; and the monosyllable meant
much.

VII

NEXT MORNING I was a rather inattentive pupil,
but Mr. Star rightly attributed this to the pre-
vious night's gaieties and was lenient with me, though
my eyes often wandered through the window when
they ought to have been occupied with sums, and I
made a bad mess of my dictation. Mr. Star was still
great on dictation, though I ought to have been be-
yond such elementary exercises at the age of twelve.
"Parsing" was another favourite performance of his.
The word parse always struck me as sounding
slightly ridiculous: even now it makes me smile when
I look at it; but it conjures up for rne a very clear
picture of that quiet schoolroom: myself in a brown
woollen jersey with my elbows on the table, and my
tutor in his shabby tail-coat, chalking up on the black-
* board, for my exclusive benefit, the first proposition of
Euclid. Above the bookcase (which contained an odd
assortment of primers, poetry, and volumes of adven-
ture) hung a map of the world—a shiny one, which
rolled up. But the map of the world was too large for
me that morning, and I was longing to look at the
local one and find out how far it was to Heron's
Gate (and where it was).

As soon as Mr. Star had gone home to his little
house in the village I slyly abstracted the ordnance
map from the shelf where my aunt kept it (she was
rather fond of consulting the map), and carried it

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