Peter and Kenyon left the station arm in arm. They had watched the train
round the corner and disappear. Many hands had waved to the crowd of
undergraduates who had come to see their people and friends off. Peter
had stood bareheaded with his hand still tingling with the touch of
Betty's.
They walked slowly back to college, each busy with his thoughts.
Exultation filled Peter's mind. Kenyon was wondering how much he could
touch Peter for. In the procession of returning undergraduates they made
their way under the railway bridge and along the sun-bathed but rather
slummy cobblestone road over which the tram-cars ran. They passed the
row of little red brick houses--most of which were shops--and the
factory, stammering smoke, and turned into the back way which led by a
short cut to Worcester.
Oxford had resumed her normal atmosphere. Fathers and mothers, uncles,
guardians, brothers, sisters and cousins, who had all descended upon the
town, had departed. No longer were the old winding streets set alight by
the many colored frocks of pretty girls, nor were they any longer
stirred into a temporary bustle by the great influx of motor-cars.
Undergraduates held possession once more and with their peculiar
adaptability were making hasty preparations for the long vacation.
Peter led the way to his sitter, loaded his inevitable pipe, and sat in
the sun on the sill of the open window. With fastidious care Kenyon
stuck a cigarette into a long meerschaum holder and laid himself down on
the settee. He had worked very hard during the week and had very much
more than carried out his promise to Peter to make himself pleasant. The
moment had come when he might certainly lead the way up to his reward.
Peter took the words out of his friend's mouth. "What d'you think?" he
said. "When I was saying good-bye to the Governor on the platform he
took me aside and gave me a cheque. He did it in his curious apologetic
way which always makes me feel that he's someone else's father, and
said: 'I think this will see you through for a month or two.' Gee! It's
some cheque, Nick! I don't think I shall have to touch the old man down
for another bob until I have to book my passage. His generosity leaves
me wordless. I wish to God I'd been able to say something nice. As it
was, I had to tell mother to thank him for me." He went over to his
desk, fished out a cheque-book, sat down and made one out in his large
round boyish handwriting.
Kenyon watched him intently. He hoped that it might be for himself and
for fifty sovereigns. That amount, carefully split up, would keep some
of his more pressing tradesmen quiet for a short time.
"Is this any good to you, old man?" said Peter. He dropped the cheque on
to Kenyon's immaculate waistcoat. It was for a hundred pounds.
The master parasite was taken by surprise almost for the first time in
his life and he was sincerely touched by this generosity. "My dear old
Peter! This is really devilish kind of you! I'm exceedingly grateful. My
exit from Oxford can now be made with a certain amount of dignity. I'll
add this amount to your other advances, and you must trust in God and my
luck at cards to get it back."
"Oh, that's all right," said Peter. "You'd have done the same for me.
What's the good of friendship anyway if a man can't share his bonuses
with a pal? Well, well! There goes another Commem:--the last of them for
us. Everything seems awfully flat here without,--without my people. What
d'you think of the Governor?"
Kenyon folded the cheque neatly and slipped it into a small leather case
upon which his crest was embossed in gold. It was one of the numerous
nice things for which he owed. "Your father," he said, "is a very
considerable man. I made a careful study of him and I've come to the
conclusion that all he needs from you and Graham is human treatment. If
he were my father I should buy a metaphorical chisel and an easily
manipulated hammer and chip off all his shyness bit by bit as though it
were concrete. Properly managed there's enough in Dr. Guthrie to keep
you in comfort for the rest of your life without doing a stroke of work.
What age is he--somewhere about fifty-three I suppose? In all human
probability he is good--barring accidents--for another fifteen years or
so. Then, duly mourned, and, I take it, considerably paragraphed in your
newspapers, he will go to his long rest and you will come into your
own. With even quite ordinary diplomacy you can use those fifteen years
to considerable advantage to yourself,--dallying gently with life and
adding considerably to your experience, making your headquarters at his
house. You can do the semblance of work in order to satisfy his rather
puritanical notion,--but I can't see that there'll be any need for you
to sweat. For instance, become a poet--that's easy. There are stacks of
sonneteers whom you could imitate. Or you could call yourself a literary
man and do nothing more than establish a sanctum-sanctorum in which to
keep a neat pile of well-bound manuscript books and acquire a library.
If I were you I should adopt the latter course--it sounds well. It'll
satisfy the old man and all the while you're not writing the great book
he'll pat himself on the back and congratulate himself on having had you
properly educated. During all this time you can draw from him a very
nice yearly income, and then make your splash when nature has laid her
relentless hand upon the old man's shoulder."
There was a moment's pause, during which Peter looked very curiously at
the graceful indolent man who lay upon his settee. "If I didn't know
that you were talking for effect," he said, "I should take you by the
scruff of your neck and the seat of your breeches and hurl you
down-stairs. I know you better than to believe that you are the
cold-blooded brute that you make yourself out to be. Anyhow, we'll not
discuss the matter. The one useful thing you have said--and on which I
shall try to act--is that Graham and I must try to be more human with
the Governor. He deserves it. What's the program?"
"For me," said Kenyon, "dinner with Lascelles and bridge to the early
hours. With good cards and a fairly good partner I shall hope to make a
bit. What are you going to do?"
"I shall dine in Hall," said Peter, "and then go out for a walk."
"I see." Kenyon got up, filled his cigarette case from Peter's box and
stood with his back to the mantel-piece. "You proposed to Betty to-day,
didn't you?"
"How the deuce did you know that?"
Kenyon laughed. "My dear fellow," he said, "everybody knows that. You
exuded romance when you arrived late at the Inn. The very waiter guessed
it, and was so stirred, being Swiss, that he very nearly poured the soup
down your mother's neck. And when your mother looked at you I saw
something come into her eyes which showed me that she knew she had lost
you. I wouldn't be a mother if you paid me!" And then he held out his
hand with that charm of which he was past-master. "'Friend that sticketh
closer than a brother,' three years; dashed bit of a slip of a girl, one
week,--and where's your friend? Well, good luck, Peter! She's a nice
little thing. Dream your dreams, old boy, but don't altogether forget
the man who's been through Oxford with you."
Peter grasped the hand warmly. "Don't be an ass!" he said. "Go and brush
your back hair. It's all sticking up."
And when he was alone, except for a golden patch of evening sun which
had found its way through his window and had spilt itself on his carpet,
Peter pulled out a little white glove from his pocket and kissed it.
"O God!" he said. "Help me to become a man."