re, and then he
quickly left them standing by the fountain close together.

CHAPTER XVII

THE LAST DAY

At sunrise when the stones of Oxford were the color of lavender, a
photograph was taken of those who had been dancing at the Christ Church
ball; after which, their gaiety recorded, the revelers went home.
Michael was relieved when Alan offered to drive his mother and Stella
back to the Randolph. He was not wishing for company that morning, but
rather to walk slowly down to college alone. He waited, therefore, to
see the dancers disappear group by group round various corners, until
the High was desolate and he was the only human figure under this
virginal sky. In his bedroom clear and still and sweet with morning
light he did not want to go to bed. The birds fluttering on the lawns,
the sun sparkling with undeterrent rays of gold not yet high and fierce,
and all the buildings of the college dreaming upon the bosom of this
temperate morn made him too vigilant for beauty. It would be wrong to
sleep away this Oxford morning. With deliberate enjoyment he changed
from ruffled evening dress into flannels.

In the sitting-room Michael looked idly through the books, and glanced
with dissatisfaction at the desquamating backs of the magazines. There
was nothing here fit to occupy his attention at such a peerless hour.
Yet he still lingered by the books. Habit was strong enough to make him
feel it necessary at least to pretend to read during the hours before
breakfast. Finally in desperation he pulled out one of the magazines,
and as he did so a small volume bound in paper fell onto the floor. It
was Manon Lescaut, and Michael was pleased that the opportunity was
given to him of reading a book he had for a long time meant to read.
Moreover, if it were disappointing, this edition was so small that it
would fit easily into his pocket and be no bother to carry. He wondered
rather how Manon Lescaut had come into this bookshelf, and he opened it
at an aquatint of ladies deject and lightly clothed--_c'est une douzaine
de filles de joie_, said the inscription beneath. Here, Michael feared,
was the explanation of how the Abbe Prevost found himself squeezed away
between Pearson's and The Strand. Here at last was evidence in these
rooms of a personal choice. Here spoke, if somewhat ignobly, the
character of the purchaser. Michael slipped the small volume into his
pocket and went out.

The great lawns in front of New Quad stre