Somebody unbuttoned my braces from behind and then I was on the floor again in a tangle of legs and arms, with everything torn off me.

I sat up, naked, and suddenly realized that I had to go back to the House in the ruined trousers. It would be almost as bad as going back to the House in no trousers at all.

Geoffrey realized my difficulty and found two pins. We fastened the flaps round my legs at the knees, but large cracks of pink flesh still showed.

Geoffrey and some others walked closely round me and we made our way over the playing-fields, hoping to meet as few people as possible.

I reached the House safely, but once inside I could conceal my state no longer. My legs and arms were seized and I was swung into the big rubbish box and then covered with waste paper; for decency’s sake, I was told.

         

On Saturday evenings I would get an “exeat” from the prefect on duty so that I could go to the Art School.

When the “exeat” was signed and I was out in the road, I felt free; as if I were not at school at all. The dark village street seemed full of excitement. I stared hungrily into all the lighted rooms where the curtains had not been drawn.

Once a drunk man lurched off a bus and made in my direction. A little thrill of horror ran through me, I thought he was going to attack me; but he suddenly fell down and lay on the ground vomiting. I went up to him furtively. His shoulders were trembling and he was lying in his vomit. I wondered what I could do to help, but at that moment he swore so fiercely that I took fright and fled.

The lights in the Art School were blue and high up amongst the rafters. The building had been the ox stable when Repton was a priory.

Now, in the evening it was sombre and mysterious with casts of the Elgin Marbles floating on the gloom and partitions of heavy drapery thrown over the beams. There was a huge sink where the taps dripped, and next to it a cupboard stuffed with paint-boxes, dead singing-birds, owls, brushes, milk-jugs, drawing-boards, plaster noses, ears and eyes, flower-bowls, pencils, saucers and shells.

In the far corner, on a dais, sat the portrait model, nearly always an old man or woman from the village. His or her face seemed falling to pieces under the disintegrating blue lights.

Only the more senior of us painted the model. The rest chose something to copy, from the long line of shelves.

Mr. Williams passed in and out amongst the stools, cracking jokes. We were all a little afraid of what he might say next, but he was malicious about the masters as well, which delighted us.

There were rare evenings when he took us back to his rooms and showed us pictures on his magic-lantern. He never worried about the time, and once someone was sent from the House to fetch me back to supper.

“Is Mr. Bird’s supper worth going back for, Welch?” Mr. Williams drawled out wickedly.

There was a pause, and then a shamefaced titter from all of us. We liked his malice but we knew that it was dog eating dog.

         

One Saturday afternoon, towards the middle of the term, he took a small party of us to Chatsworth. We went in the O.T.C. bus. The change from football was intoxicating. As we jolted over the little stone bridges in the khaki ambulance I began to feel more alive. After the dark, rocky hills, Chatsworth, standing in its park, looked pale and delicate in spite of its huge size. The grass all round it was dry and tow-coloured, and the stone of the building the colour of smoky honey.

The librarian met us on the doorstep. His glasses flashed in the sun as he bent towards us, smiling. With him was a young painter whom the Duke had befriended. They were the only two people in the house except for the servants.

We were led into the dark hall, and there the painter left us-to wash his brushes, as he explained. When he had gone the librarian turned to us and said:

“That’s a most remarkable man. He used to work in a laundry, but he carried on through thick and thin with his painting and now he’s staying here and painting subjects in the house and park.”

We passed the footman’s high-winged draught-chair and stood at the foot of the great staircase.

The librarian walked in front, leading us through the great chain of state-rooms.