Long before he reached the outskirts of Ramsgard he was reminded of his approach to the famous West Country School by the various groups of straw-hatted boys⁠—tall, reserved, disdainful⁠—who seemed exploring, like young Norman invaders, these humble pasture-lands of the West Saxons.

One or two of the boys, as they passed him by, made hesitating half-gestures of respectful recognition. One of them actually lifted his straw-hat. Wolf became a little embarrassed by these encounters. He wondered what kind of a master these polite neophytes⁠—for it must have been the newcomers at the place who blundered in this way⁠—mistook him for! Did he look like a teacher of French? Or did they take him for one of that high, remote, aristocratic company⁠—not masters at all, but Governors of the ancient School?