"Of course you know Charlie's at school in France," said Mr Orgreave,
as they passed along Wedgwood Street in the direction of Saint Luke's
Square. He was really very companionable.
"Er--yes!" Edwin replied, nervously explosive, and buttoning up his
tight overcoat with an important business air.
"At least it isn't a school--it's a university. Besancon, you know.
They take university students much younger there. Oh! He has a rare
time--a rare time. Never writes to you, I suppose?"
"No." Edwin gave a short laugh.
Mr Orgreave laughed aloud. "And he wouldn't to us either, if his
mother didn't make a fuss about it. But when he does write, we gather
there's no place like Besancon."
"It must be splendid," Edwin said thoughtfully.
"You and he were great chums, weren't you? I know we used to hear about
you every day. His mother used to say that we had Clayhanger with every
meal." Mr Orgreave again laughed heartily.
Edwin blushed. He was quite startled, and immensely flattered. What on
earth could the Sunday have found to tell them every day about _him_? He,
Edwin Clayhanger, a subject of conversation in the household of the
Orgreaves, that mysterious household which he had never entered but
which he had always pictured to himself as being so finely superior!
Less than a year ago Charlie Orgreave had been `the Sunday,' had been
`old Perish-in-the-attempt,' and now he was a student in Besancon
University, unapproachable, extraordinarily romantic; and he, Edwin,
remained in his father's shop! He had been aware that Charlie had gone
to Besancon University, but he had not realised it effectively till this
moment. The realisation blew discontent into a flame, which fed on the
further perception that evidently the Orgreave family were a gay, jolly
crowd of cronies together, not in the least like parents and children;
their home life must be something fundamentally different from his.
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