dreamily, "that some of them had too
much side."

And Shelton laughed.

"The thing sickens me," said he, "the whole snobbish, selfish
business. The place sickens me, lined with cotton-wool-made so beastly
comfortable."

Crocker shook his head.

"It's a splendid old place," he said, his eyes fastening at last on
Shelton's boots. "You know, old chap," he stammered, "I think you--you
ought to take care!"

"Take care? What of?"

Crocker pressed his arm convulsively.

"Don't be waxy, old boy," he said; "I mean that you seem somehow--to
be--to be losing yourself."

"Losing myself! Finding myself, you mean!"

Crocker did not answer; his face was disappointed. Of what exactly was
he thinking? In Shelton's heart there was a bitter pleasure in knowing
that his friend was uncomfortable on his account, a sort of contempt, a
sort of aching. Crocker broke the silence.

"I think I shall do a bit more walking to-night," he said; "I feel very
fit. Don't you really mean to come any further with me, Bird?"

And there was anxiety in his voice, as though Shelton were in danger of
missing something good. The latter's feet had instantly begun to ache
and burn.

"No!"? he said; "you know what I'm staying here for."

Crocker nodded.

"She lives near here. Well, then, I'll say good-bye. I should like to do
another ten miles to-night."

"My dear fellow, you're tired and lame."

Crocker chuckled.

"No," he said; "I want to get on. See you in London. Good-bye!" and,
gripping Shelton's hand, he turned and limped away.

Shelton called after him: "Don't be an idiot: You 'll only knock
yourself up."

But the sole answer was the pale moon of Crocker's face screwed round
towards him in the darkness, and the waving of his stick.

Shelton strolled slowly on; leaning over the bridge, he watched the
oily gleam of lamps, on the dark water underneath the trees. He felt
relieved, yet sorry. His thoughts were random, curious, half mutinous,
half sweet. That afternoon five years ago, when he had walked back from
the river with Antonia across the Christchurch meadows, was vivid to his
mind; the scent of that afternoon had never died away from him-the aroma
of his love. Soon she would be his wife--his wife! The faces of the dons
sprang up before him. They had wives, perhaps. Fat, lean, satirical,
and compromising--what was it that through diversity they had in common?
Cultured intolerance! . . . Honour! . . . A queer subject to discuss.