"I'm sorry," said Tristan, still with his first whiskey. "It seems becoming a painter is as much of a road of hardship as any other profession, if not more. I was fine with written exams but I used to get terribly nervous for oral and practical exams. Back in school orals were worse than in university. I guess teachers are quite intimidating when you're a boy. My Latin teacher would start shouting if you didn't get the answer quickly enough. Certainly didn't help with the nerves."

He downed the rest of his drink, pulling a face as the sharp and yet satisfying sensation of the drink burning his throat. School had been a dark time, safe for one comforting friendship, and Tristan wondered why people who could afford it put their boys through such a brutal system. Was creating cold, unfeeling, and bullying young men a goal so desirable that one would lay down a great sum of money and break a young boy so gladly for it?