“I thought I heard a noise, Mr. Scriven. I hope nothing’s broken.”

“You can’t see anything broken—can you, Mrs. Brown?”

Mrs. Brown looked round, her every movement followed by the others, their faces writhing with half-controlled laughter. Actually, for a minute, she could find nothing. Then she realised:

“Oh, Mr. Scriven! that’s too bad of you, really it is. My beautiful new shade!”

“I’m most dreadfully sorry, Mrs. Brown. I simply can’t imagine how it happened. Perhaps one of its little chains wasn’t very strong.”

“And to think—I only bought it the day before yesterday!”

“I know, Mrs. Brown. It’s most awfully sad. But you shall have another just exactly like it. We’ll buy Mrs. Brown another, won’t we, chaps? Has anyone got a quid?”

None of Maurice’s regular friends responded, of course, but a second-year man named Currie, who didn’t know Maurice well, eagerly produced it.

“Thanks most terrifically, ducky. I’ll let you have it back first thing to-morrow.”

“Oh, there’s no hurry,” said Currie, delighted to have been of service.

Mrs. Brown retired, partially soothed.

“That was a blasted silly thing to do,” said Farncombe severely.

Maurice’s spirits seemed rather dashed. He kept quiet for a minute or two. But conversation had hardly begun again, when the gramophone uttered a long continuous squealing scream. Maurice had been quietly tinkering about with it. The record was being played at several times the fastest normal speed. There was a general roar of laughter, in which Maurice delightedly joined. How he loved it when he could make everybody laugh.

*   *   *

During Hall, that evening, Maurice was in even higher spirits. He’d had a couple of gin and vermouths at the Buttery. The least drop of alcohol made him visibly excited. Sometimes, it seemed, he needed only to look at it. And in the Porter’s Lodge he’d found a wire from Edward:

“Arriving lunch-time to-morrow.”

That was splendid.

Sitting in his favourite place, commanding the whole room, craning his neck to catch the eyes of his special friends, waving to them, throwing bread at the College servants; scribbling notes, which were passed round from hand to hand, and getting back replies; fighting Hughes and Gerald Ramsbotham and being forced under the table; glancing every few moments quickly towards the dons to make sure that he wasn’t being noticed—he got through the meal in his usual style.

“What shall we do this evening, honey?”

“I think I’ll give the ‘bus’ an airing,” said Gerald.

Maurice was pleased. He’d hoped Gerald would say that. He’d discovered, at tea, that their new friend Currie also had a car: a Sunbeam. He had pots of cash. And when Maurice had casually suggested that one day they might all go out together, he’d simply jumped at the idea. Maurice had asked him to coffee that evening.

“We’ll get the others, won’t we, lovey?”

“Sure thing,” said Gerald.

Currie proved most amenable. After several more drinks, they went round to the garage to fetch the cars.