ied Garthorne, as
the door closed, and then he turned to Enid and went on: "He's a
thundering good fellow that Ernshaw. Quite a character, I believe,
enthusiast, and all that sort of thing, but everyone here seems to think
he'll be a shining light some day."

"Yes, he seems very nice," said Enid, "but, as a matter of fact, I can't
say that I'm particularly fond of shining lights or people who are too
good, and from what papa tells me, this Mr. Ernshaw has been making or
trying to make Vane a great deal too good for me. I even hear that he
has been trying to make Vane become a parson. Fancy Vane, with all his
talents and prospects, a curate! The idea is absurd, even more absurd
than this two years' probation idea."

"I quite agree with you," said Garthorne, "but still, think of the test
of constancy and the delight of knowing that you have both stood it so
well."

At this moment the door opened, and Sir Godfrey came in, not altogether
to Garthorne's satisfaction, and so put an end to further developments
of the conversation.

A couple of hours later Enid was sitting with her father, a unit of the
vast audience which filled the Sheldonian Theatre. After Ernshaw's
visit, neither she nor her father had received any message either from
Vane or Sir Arthur. She had expected that Vane, at least, would have
come to her before the beginning of the ceremonies, or that, at least,
Sir Arthur would have come and told her something about him, but no, not
a word; and there she sat between Garthorne and her father, angry and
yet expectant, waiting for the moment of his appearance.

"Ah, here he is at last," whispered Garthorne, as his name and honours
were called out in Latin.

Enid held her breath as the familiar figure, clad in the unfamiliar
academic garb, walked towards the Chancellor's throne. She could see
that he was deadly pale, and that his eyes were shining with an
unnatural brightness. He never even once looked towards her. The wild
outburst of cheering which greeted his appearance seemed as utterly
lost upon him as if he had been stone deaf and blind. He listened to the
Chancellor's address with as little emotion as though it concerned some
one else. Then he knelt down, the hood, the outward and visible sign of
his intellectual triumph, was put over his shoulders; the Chancellor
spoke the magic words without his hearing them. He never felt the three
taps given with the New Testament on his head, and he rose from his