The following morning at eight o'clock Peter, as fit as a fiddle,
stalked into Kenyon's bedroom and flung up the blind. The sun poured in
through the open window. Innumerable sparrows twittered among the trees
in the gardens and scouts were moving energetically about the quad. From
the other windows the sounds of renewed life were coming. The great
beehive of a college was about to begin a new and strenuous day.
Kenyon was sleeping heavily with a blanket drawn about his ears. His
clothes were all over the floor and a tumbler one-fourth filled with
whiskey stood on the dressing-table among a large collection of
ivory-backed brushes, links, studs, tie-pins and other paraphernalia
which belong to men of Kenyon's type,--the bloods of Oxford. With a
chuckle, Peter dipped a large sponge in the water of the hip-bath which
had been placed ready on the floor, and throwing back the blanket
squeezed its contents all over Kenyon's well-cut face.
The effect was instantaneous. The sleeper awoke, and cursed. Peter's
howl of laughter at the sight of this pale blinking man with his
delicate blue silk pajamas all wet round the neck advertised the fact to
the whole college that he was up and about.
Kenyon got slowly out of bed. "There are fools--damned fools--and Peter
Guthrie," he said quietly. "What's the time?"
"Time for you to get up, shave and bathe, if you want to breakfast at
the Randolph. How late were you last night?"
"Haven't a notion," said Kenyon. "The first faint touch of dawn was
coming over the horizon, so far as I remember, when your little brother
watched me climb through the window of the man Rivers, upon whose
'tummie' I planted my foot. For a man who's about to enter the Church he
has an astounding vocabulary of gutter English. You look abominably fit,
old boy--the simple life, eh? Heigh-ho!--Manipulate this machine for me
while I'm doing my hair." He picked up the small black case of his
safety-razor and threw it at Peter, who caught it. Then he got into a
very beautiful silk dressing-gown, stuck his feet into a pair of
heelless red morocco slippers, and with infinite pains and accuracy made
a centre parting in his fair hair, in which there was a slight natural
curl.
From his comfortable position on the foot of the bed Peter watched his
friend shave,--a performance through which he went with characteristic
neatness. It was a very different performance from the one through which
Peter was in the habit of going. Soap flew all round this untidy man,
giving the scout much extra work in his cleaning-up process.
Kenyon didn't intend to enter into any details as to the orgy of the
night before. He knew from previous experience that Peter's sympathy was
not with him. For many reasons he desired to stand well with his friend,
especially looking to the fact that he needed an immediate loan. One or
two of his numerous creditors were pressing for part payment. So he let
the matter drop and took the opportunity to talk like a father to Peter
on another point which had grown out of the visit of his people. "Tell
me," he said, "what is precisely the state of your feelings in regard to
your sister's friend? It seems to me that you're getting a bit sloppy in
that direction. Am I right?"
"No," said Peter, "'sloppy' isn't the word."
"Oh! Well, then, what is the word? I may be able to advise you."
"I don't want your advice," said Peter. "My mind is made up."