University tutors seemed to forget they were not schoolmas ters. They were two adults together, were they not? He hadn’t come here to be hectored.

Butters was waiting for an answer.

“I have been under a great deal of pressure, Monsieur.”

“I am not French,” said Butters dryly, “and as you are reading English, I think we had better stick to that.”

I hate him, Tom thought. He said, “Of course, sir.”

“What pressure, precisely, have you been under?” Butters asked, folding his arms.

“My father . . . my father has recently been declared dead,” Tom said, hanging his head and hoping for sympathy.

“Yes, I had heard. But that event took place just a few weeks ago, whereas the inattention and sloppiness began halfway through your first term.”

Tom stiffened. He had imagined mention of his father’s death would put an end to the interrogation. They were nightmares, the Christ Church faculty, but nonetheless had a reputation for great compassion and elasticity whenever an undergraduate had a real problem, family or otherwise.

He thought fast.

“Monsieur—Mr. Butters. I know I have not been doing as well as I should. The pleasures of independence rather distracted me.” He saw this small measure of truth had not gone down badly. “And I had resolved to, as you say, pull my socks up.”

To Tom’s aggravation he saw the Censor swallow a smile at his colloquialism, delivered with that permanent trace of a French accent he neither could get rid of, nor wanted to.

“But the news of my father’s death, that he is declared dead, that has shaken me. I find I cannot concentrate, I can think of nothing else.” To his horror, Tom found he was being affected. His voice shook; he struggled. “I will certainly fail my degree, or you will send me away, if I have to continue to try to study at present, but if I can take a sabbatical. You can rusticate me. . . .”

Butters had noted that the boy’s eyes were reddened. Tom angrily dashed his sleeve across them, and then tried, pathetically, to cover the gesture with a cough.

The older man softened. “If we rusticate you, Mr. Massot, do I have your word that when you return here you will do your best to vindicate the trust the admissions officers placed in you?”

This was an unexpected question. Tom did not want to give his word. Giving his word was a serious matter. But there was nothing for it other than to say “Yes.”

“Good,” the Senior Censor continued. “Every year, many more students apply to the house than we can take in. We select from the best and disappoint the others, sometimes crushingly. There were at least fifteen qualified applicants for your place, Mr. Massot.”

Tom sulked; he couldn’t help it if others were too stupid to qualify.