“That doesn’t matter a bit,” said Currie, who was feeling a tremendous devil.

On the way back to Cambridge, they discussed where it should be put. Maurice’s digs was the only possible place. They’d haul it up through the window. It was late. There weren’t many people about. Maurice held its head, Farncombe its middle and Hughes its foot. It was wrapped in rugs.

They only met one person—an undergraduate—on the way from the car to the door. As he passed them, Maurice exclaimed:

“Hullo, Eric! Where have you sprung from? I never see you nowadays.”

Eric, faintly smiling, very sober, said:

“I’ve been out to dinner with a don.”

“How lovely!” Maurice laughed. “Well, look, darling, when am I going to see you?”

Maurice didn’t quite know why he said it. But he never could help giving invitations:

“Look here; come to lunch to-morrow.”

Eric seemed about to make some objection.

“You must, see?”

Eric smiled: “Very well. Thank you.”

“That’s glorious. At half-past one. Edward Blake’s going to be there.”

They were silent. Eric said:

“What’s this you’ve got?”

Maurice raised a corner of the rug.

“It’s the Unknown Warrior. Don’t tell the Vice-Chancellor, will you, lovey?”

“No, I won’t. Good night.”

“Was that your cousin?” Farncombe asked, when Eric had gone.

“Yes.”

“He isn’t very like you, is he?”

“No,” said Maurice, “worse luck. He’s the brainiest man in Cambridge.”

Chapter II

II

MY God, thought Eric, at the window of his large, dark, bare room, looking down into the College Court, where the Tutor was just emerging from a doorway in earnest conversation with the Dean, who wore shorts, dressed for fives; three young men with gowns slung over their shoulders were grouped chatting; a College servant hurried, carrying a pair of boots—how I hate them all!