ABSTRACT
Newman was in his study—the same that had once been the Holy of Holies of poor God-Almighty Shaw. He welcomed me and very soon we were talking about his House and its affairs. I thought he was ill at ease. His wife came in and we had tea. She was a large, florid woman, unattractive by virtue of a prominent robust Roman nose—rather like a bird of prey I thought. Her brother was the music master who had been one of the heroes of myself in common with my contemporaries and previous generations of school fellows, the composer of the militant Christian battle hymn of ‘Onward Christian So-ho-ho-hol-jers on to the cookhouse door!’ He and Newman were great friends and so it was no surprise that a romance had sprung up between Newman and the musician’s sister. It was said, in keeping with Newman’s well-known loyal and statistical bent, that he boasted that their union bound together four school families and their seventeen genealogues.
