Thinking of bills was always unpleasant. He was in the hell of a mess over bills now. The people at the Garage wouldn’t wait much longer. They were always the worst. The tailor was not serious. The gramophone shop he could square. God only knew what Mother would say to the Buttery bills. Anyhow, he couldn’t expect any money from her this term. She’d been awfully decent already. Anne had long ago taken to flatly refusing loans. He’d had a lot from Farncombe and a lot more from Gerald Ramsbotham—but, after all, Gerald could afford it. All these sources were dry for the present.

I must wire to Edward Blake, Maurice thought, and ask him to come down for a few days. He’d written to Edward already, but Edward was hopeless. He never answered letters. And it was really essential that he should come at once. I’ll wire today, now, on the way back from Jimmy’s, Maurice decided. Edward might be able to help. Maurice avoided the word “pay” even in his own mind. It was unpleasant to think of cadging. But Edward had such a lot of money and such a casual, haphazard way of spending it—and the thought of money was like a nice warm fire. Maurice felt he wanted to be near it. It would be nice to see Edward.

Crossing the College Court, he mounted the staircase to Jimmy’s room. Knocked. Jimmy’s secretary opened the door. As usual, she was very bright.

“The Tutor won’t be a moment now.”

Maurice sat down with a faint sigh, wishing his gown wasn’t so torn. Jimmy always kept you waiting. At last the secretary emerged from the inner room.

“Will you go in, please?”

Maurice knocked. Jimmy’s voice sounded very gruff: “Come in.”

And, of course, he was busy writing. So busy that he didn’t condescend to look up at Maurice for nearly a minute.

“Sit down, won’t you, Mr. Scriven?”

And Maurice sat, on the edge of the chair, waiting while Jimmy turned over some papers, blotted a sheet, signed three forms and finally took off his horn-rimmed spectacles and cleaned the lenses with a silk handkerchief. His eyes moved round the familiar book-shelves to the challenge-cup on the mantelpiece at which he’d so often blankly stared while Jimmy’s mild sarcasms glanced around him and he waited patiently for the sentence—so many weeks’ gating, so much to pay, or just a warning. His eyes unconsciously assumed that look of injured, yet not resentful, innocence with which he would presently be saying: “Yes, sir, I see. Thank you, sir. Good morning.”

At length Jimmy was ready.

“Now, Mr. Scriven, I dare say you know why I sent for you. It’s about this affair out at Huntingdon last Saturday.”

“Yes, sir?” Maurice looked helpful.

“Well, I don’t propose to go into a lot of details which may, or may not, have been exaggerated. I only want to say this: the Master and the Dean and I have discussed the whole affair, and we’ve come to the conclusion that this sort of thing can happen once too often—you understand me?”