Free The Passionate Year by James Hilton

Head beamed on him cordially and said: “I understand, Mr. Speed, that
you—um—give my daughter—occasional—um,
yes—assistance with her music. Very kind of you, I’m sure—um,
yes—extremely kind of you, Mr. Speed.”
    He added, dreamily: “My daughter—still—um, yes—still a
child in many ways—makes few friends—um, yes—very few.
Seems to have taken quite an—um, yes—quite a fancy to you,
Mr. Speed.”
    And Speed answered, with an embarrassment that was ridiculously
schoolboyish: “Indeed, sir?—Indeed?”
IV
    Speech Day at Millstead.
    Speed sat shyly on his chair on the platform, wrapping his gown round him
nervously, and gazing, every now and then, at the fashionably-dressed throng
that crowded the Big Hall to its utmost capacity. It was a day of ordeals,
but his own chief ordeal was safely past; the school-choir had grappled quite
creditably with Stanford’s Te Deum at the chapel service that morning.
He was feeling very happy, even amidst his nervousness. His eyes wandered to
the end of the front row of the auditorium, where Helen Ervine and Clare
Harrington sat together. They were gossiping and laughing.
    The Chairman, Sir Henry Briggs, rose to introduce the principal guest,
Lord Portway. Lord Portway, so said Sir Henry Briggs, needed no introduction.
Lord Portway…
    Speed listened dreamfully.
    Then Lord Portway. Lord Portway confessed himself to be a poor speaker,
but hoped that it would not always be those with a glib tongue that got on in
the world. (Laughter and cheers.) When he (Lord Portway) was at school he was
ashamed to say that he never received a single prize. (More laughter.) He
hoped that all the boys of Millstead, whether they had prizes or not, would
remember that it wasn’t always the prize-winners at school who did best in
the battle of life. (Hear, hear.) He would just like to give them all a word
or two of advice. Be thorough. (Cheers.) Brilliance wasn’t everything. If he
were engaging an employee and he had the choice of two men, one brilliant and
the other thorough, he should choose the thorough one. He was certain that
some, at least, of those Millstead boys who had won no prizes would do great
things and become famous in after-life…
    Speed watched Doctor Ervine’s face; saw the firm mouth expand, from time
to time, into a mirthless automatic smile whenever the audience was stirred
to laughter. And Mrs. Ervine fidgeted with her dress and glanced about her
with nervously sparkling eyes.
    Finally, said Lord Portway, he would like to ask the Headmaster to grant
the boys of Millstead a whole holiday…(Cheers, deafening and
continuous.)
    It was, of course, the universal custom that Speech Day should be followed
by a week-end’s holiday in which those boys who lived within easy reach might
go home. Many boys had already made their arrangements and chosen their
trains, but, respecting the theory that the holiday depended on Lord
Portway’s asking for it, they cheered as if he had conferred an inestimable
boon upon them.
    The Head, raising his hand when the clamour had lasted a sufficient time,
announced: “My Lord, I have—um—great pleasure in granting your
request.”
    More deafening cheers. The Masters round about Speed, witnesses of this
little farce for a number of successive years varying from one to thirty,
smiled and whispered together condescendingly.
    Sir Henry Briggs, thick-voiced and ponderous. “I—I call upon the
Headmaster…”
    Doctor Ervine rose, cleared his throat, and began: “My
Lord—um—and Ladies and Gentlemen.” A certain sage—he would
leave it to his sixth-form boys to give the gentleman’s
name—(Laughter)—had declared that that nation was happy which had
no history. It had often occurred to him that the remark could be neatly and
appositely adapted to a public-school—happy was that public-school year
about which, on Speech Day, the Headmaster could find very little to say.