That, of course, takes one to the moral dilemma. Why should the excellent education on offer at Westminster and Winchester be so hard for people of modest or even middling means to obtain? We might be willing to pay for education, as we might also be willing to pay for private healthcare, but there remains at the back of our brains a moral scruple that itches a little. To some extent, this issue was addressed when a large number of schools inhabited a middle ground between grammar schools and public schools, in the Direct Grant system of scholarships that Labour swept away in the 1970s. These schools, it is true, were hobbled by the heavy representation among their governors of local government representatives; in this way their independence was compromised. When the Direct Grant ceased, Labour expected these schools to turn comprehensive or to shrivel, but many of them became completely independent and flourished as never before. Then there was the Assisted Places scheme set up by the Conservatives to provide scholarships at an even larger range of schools, including some of the ancient ones; the very first act of Blair’s new government was to sweep that system away as well.

The argument was about buying privilege, about the ease with which those who emerged from these schools could make their way in the City, in the professions or indeed in political life. It paid rather little attention to the main task of these schools, which was to educate. In the 19th century, the ideal of educating the whole person came more and more into focus; and the Clarendon Commission worried about the usefulness of the teaching that was offered in the nine schools it examined: plenty of Greek and Latin, but where were modern languages? Even mathematics was often treated with disdain. I can vouch for the fact that the cases David Turner cites in his book of science-less education around 1900 still occurred in the second half of the 20th century. I was asked at the age of 13, “Do you wish to do Greek, or do you wish to do science?” I very much wanted to do Greek, so I left school without any qualification in science (other than plenty of mathematics). 

It was the sort of school where the number of boys achieving Oxbridge awards each year was a matter of great pride; but that did not cancel out an insistence on building character that has been typical of these schools at least since Dr Arnold’s time at Rugby. Education was understood in a broad sense, and was not simply measured by exam grades. Once upon a time headmasters insisted that their schools provided training in “leadership”; nowadays talk of this aspect is rather muted. Yet, as Turner’s book shows, it cannot be entirely bad if there are places that produce a disproportionate number of eminent scientists, prominent politicians, great generals, and some of the leading young actors in this country. And this is even truer if, as he maintains, these schools have opened up opportunities for the middle classes, helping people work their way further up the social ladder. That rather few of those helped in this way have come from working-class backgrounds reflects the ending of the Assisted Places scheme and similar projects. 

In late-13th-century Florence you were at a serious disadvantage, in theory at least, if you came from one of the more eminent families, the so-called magnates. A culture of inverted snobbery came into being, with all the complications one might expect: people redesignated themselves as members of the popolo (“people”), adopting surnames such as Popoleschi in case anyone missed the point. In other words, there was plenty of opportunity to maintain the pretence of being just an ordinary bloke, while nothing could be further from the truth.  Much the same happened in ancient Rome, where patricians opted for plebeian status, like the infamous careerist Clodius, who was really a Claudius but could not become Tribune of the People while he was of patrician status (his scandalous infiltration of the rites of the Vestal Virgins, dressed as a woman, is a good story, but not relevant here). This wish to be counted as of the people is once again a characteristic of champagne socialists, but it is widespread across British society; its badge is the glottal stop that replaces the letter “t” in the speech of Harriet Harman and others.