ions were not
forgotten, and the candidates from Public Schools had gravitated to one
table, those from Grammar Schools to another. Martin found himself by
the side of a red-faced, ingenuous boy, who asked for the water and
then said:

"The Harlequins are better than ever this year."

Martin assented, and added: "What's your school?"

"Rugby. What's yours?"

"I'm from Elfrey. Have you anyone else in here?"

"No. We had four up for Balliol this year."

"That's a lot. Are the results out?"

"Yes, this afternoon. We got a schol. and an exhibition."

"That was jolly good."

The dialogue became more and more technical and immensely dull.

The Rugbeian was plainly a bore and after dinner Martin fled from the
college: he found a new cinema in Broad Street and went in. Presently
some undergraduates who were stopping up for a few days at the end of
term came cheerily in and shouted vaguely.

An obsequious manager pleaded with them and they wandered down the
gangway looking for company: it did not seem very hard to find. Martin
watched their progress with interest and began to wonder whether the
girl next him wanted to talk. She had dropped her wrist-bag once and
he had picked it up: during the course of the proceedings his eye had
been caught by the glitter of a light grey stocking. She wasn't, he
had to admit, beautiful. But she was alone, and so was he. Did she,
on the other hand, want him to talk? The dropping of the bag might
have been an accident. Besides, what did one say? Martin cursed his
inexperience and racked his brains for a conversational lead. He could
hardly make some remark about the films: that would be obvious and
heavy. Something light was wanted: but what? Why on earth couldn't
she drop the bag again? He would take the hint this time. His mind
became a blank and he felt acutely miserable. At the end of the film
he rose and walked away in despair. He stopped at the back of the hall
and noticed one of the varsity men glance round and then move quickly
into his place before the lights were again turned out. Martin
returned to college, read some more of Snutch's novel, and went to bed.

Till Friday night Martin was kept hard at work doing papers in the
college hall. On Tuesday morning he had to write an essay on the
relations of the artist and the State, an obvious subject, perhaps, but
pleasing. It was the only paper which he enjoyed. Afterwards he was
kept hard at work w