a bee-luddy fool of himself by talking like a third-rate
actor."

"What do you mean?" asked Castleton gruffly.

Lonsdale explained what Maurice had done, and Castleton looked
surprised, but he would not take part in the condemnation.

"You're all friends of his in here," he pointed out. "He probably
thought it was a funny story." There was just so much emphasis on the
pronoun as made the critics realize that Castleton himself was really
more annoyed than he had superficially appeared.

An awkwardness had arisen through the inculpation of Maurice, and
everybody found they had work to do that evening. Quickly Venner's was
emptied.

Michael, turning out of Cloisters to stroll for a while on the lawns of
New Quad before he gave himself to the generalizations of whatever
historian he had chosen to beguile this summer night, came up to
Maurice leaning over the parapet by the Cher.

"Hullo, are you going to condescend to speak to me after the brick I
dropped in Venner's?" asked Maurice bitterly.

"I wish you wouldn't be so theatrically sarcastic," complained Michael,
who was half-unconsciously pursuing the simile which lately Lonsdale had
found for Maurice's behavior.

"Well, why on earth," Maurice broke out, "it should be funny when Venner
tells a story about some old St. Mary's man and yet be"--he paused,
evidently too vain, thought Michael a little cruelly, to stigmatize
himself--"and yet be considered contrary to what is _done_ when I tell a
story about myself, I don't quite know, I must admit."

"It was the introduction of the personal element which made everybody
feel uncomfortable," said Michael. "Venner's tale had acquired the
impersonality of a legend."

"Oh, god, Michael, you do talk rot sometimes!" said Maurice fretfully.
"It's nothing on earth but offensive and very youthful priggishness."

"I wonder if I sounded like you," said Michael, "when I talked rather
like you at about seventeen."

Maurice spluttered with rage at this, and Michael saw it would be
useless to remonstrate with him reasonably. He blamed himself for being
so intolerant and for not having with kindlier tact tried to point out
why he had made a mistake; and yet with all his self-reproach he could
not rid himself of what was something very near to active dislike of
Maurice at that moment.

But Maurice went on, unperceiving.

"I hate this silly pretense up here--and particularly at St.
Mary's--that nobody ever looks at a woman. It'