d grouped themselves of their own accord,
making a delicately appreciative circle with no disturbing element.
His friends had been of his own kind, the things that he had wished to
do he had done, his thoughts had been dictated by set forms and
customs. This had seemed to him, hitherto, an extraordinarily broad
outlook; he had never doubted for a moment its splendid infallibility.
He applied the tests of his set to the world at large, and the world
conformed. Life was very easy on such terms, and he had been happy and
contented.

His meeting with Dahlia had merely lent a little colour to his pleasant
complacency, and then, when it had threatened to become something more,
he had ruthlessly cut it out. This should have been simple enough, and
he had been at a loss to understand why the affair had left any traces.
Friends of his at college had had such episodes, and had been mildly
amused at their rapid conclusion. He had tried to be mildly amused at
the conclusion of his own affair, but had failed miserably. Why? ...
he did not know. He must be sensitive, he supposed; then, in that
case, he had failed to reach the proper standard.... Randal was never
sensitive. But there had been other things.

During the last week everything had seemed to be topsy-turvy. He dated
it definitely from the arrival of his father. He recalled the day; his
tie was badly made, he remembered, and he had been rather concerned
about it. How curious it all was; he must have changed since then,
because now--well, ties seemed scarcely to matter at all. He saw his
father standing at the open window watching the lighted town....
"Robin, old boy, we'll have a good time, you and I..."--and then Aunt
Clare with her little cry of horror, and his father's hurried apology.
That had been the beginning of things; one could see how it would go
from the first. Had it, after all, been so greatly his father's fault?
He was surprised to find that he was regarding his uncle and aunt
critically.... It had been their fault to a great extent--they had
never given him a chance. Then he remembered the next morning and his
own curt refusal to his father's invitation--"He had books to pack for
Randal!" How absurd it was, and he wondered why he should have
considered Randal so important. He could have waited for the books.

But these things depended entirely on his own sudden discovery that he
had failed in a crisis--failed, and failed lamentably. He did