She pouted. "But I can't stay beyond to-morrow morning, and I want so
much to see all your celebrated oarsmen practising."
"You are not staying over the night?" he gasped.
"Yes, I am," and she threw him a dazzling glance.
His heart went pit-a-pat. "Where?" he murmured.
"Oh, some poky little hotel near the station. The swell hotels are
full."
He was glad to hear she was not conspicuously quartered.
"So many people have come down already for Commem," he said. "I
suppose they are anxious to see the Generals get their degrees. But
hadn't we better go somewhere and lunch?"
They went down the stone staircase, past the battalion of boots, and
across the quad. He felt that all the windows were alive with
eyes, but she insisted on standing still and admiring their ivied
picturesqueness. After lunch he shamefacedly borrowed the dunce's
punt. The necessities of punting, which kept him far from her, and
demanded much adroit labour, gradually restored his self-respect, and
he was able to look the uncelebrated oarsmen they met in the eyes,
except when they were accompanied by their parents and sisters, which
subtly made him feel uncomfortable again. But Winifred, piquant under
her pink parasol, was singularly at ease, enraptured with the changing
beauty of the river, applauding with childish glee the wild flowers on
the banks, or the rippling reflections in the water.
"Look, look!" she cried once, pointing skyward. He stared upwards,
expecting a balloon at least. But it was only "Keats' little rosy
cloud," she explained. It was not her fault if he did not find the
excursion unreservedly idyllic.
"How stupid," she reflected, "to keep all those nice boys cooped up
reading dead languages in a spot made for life and love."
"I'm afraid they don't disturb the dead languages so much as you
think," he reassured her, smiling. "And there will be plenty of
love-making during Commem."
"I am so glad. I suppose there are lots of engagements that week."
"Oh, yes--but not one per cent come to anything."
"Really? Oh, how fickle men are!"
That seemed rather question-begging, but he was so thrilled by
the implicit revelation that she could not even imagine feminine
inconstancy, that he forebore to draw her attention to her inadequate
logic.
So childish and thoughtless indeed was she that day that nothing would
content her but attending a "Viva," which he had incautiously informed
her was public.
"Nobody will notice us," she urged with strange unconsciousness of her
loveliness. "Besides, they don't know I'm not your sister."
"The Oxford intellect is sceptical," he said, laughing. "It cultivates
philosophical doubt."
But, putting a bold face on the matter, and assuming a fraternal air,
he took her to the torture-chamber, in which candidates sat dolefully
on a row of chairs against the wall, waiting their turn to come before
the three grand inquisitors at the table. Fortunately, Winifred and he
were the only spectators; but unfortunately they blundered in at
the very moment when the poor owner of the punt was on the rack. The
central inquisitor was trying to extract from him information about
a Becket, almost prompting him with the very words, but without
penetrating through the duncical denseness. John Lefolle breathed more
freely when the Crusades were broached; but, alas, it very soon became
evident that the dunce had by no means "got hold of the thing." As the
dunce passed out sadly, obviously ploughed, John Lefolle suffered more
than he. So conscience-stricken was he that, when he had accompanied
Winifred as far as her hotel, he refused her invitation to come in,
pleading the compulsoriness of duty and dinner in Hall. But he could
not get away without promising to call in during the evening.
The prospect of this visit was with him all through dinner, at once
tempting and terrifying. Assuredly there was a skeleton at his
feast, as he sat at the high table, facing the Master. The venerable
portraits round the Hall seemed to rebuke his romantic waywardness. In
the common-room, he sipped his port uneasily, listening as in a daze
to the discussion on Free Will, which an eminent stranger had stirred
up. How academic it seemed, compared with the passionate realities
of life. But somehow he found himself lingering on at the academic
discussion, postponing the realities of life. Every now and again, he
was impelled to glance at his watch; but suddenly murmuring, "It is
very late," he pulled himself together, and took leave of his learned
brethren. But in the street the sight of a telegraph office drew his
steps to it, and almost mechanically he wrote out the message: "Regret
detained. Will call early in morning."
When he did call in the morning, he was told she had gone back to
London the night before on receipt of a telegram. He turned away with
a bitter pang of disappointment and regret.