behaviour which seemed inexplicable, took his hand,
and Philip quickly limped away. His heart was heavy; and, as was usual
with him, he began to reproach himself for what he had done: he did not
know what madness of pride had made him refuse the offered friendship. But
he heard someone running behind him and presently Lawson's voice calling
him; he stopped and suddenly the feeling of hostility got the better of
him; he presented to Lawson a cold, set face.

"What is it?"

"I suppose you heard about Hayward, didn't you?"

"I know he went to the Cape."

"He died, you know, soon after landing."

For a moment Philip did not answer. He could hardly believe his ears.

"How?" he asked.

"Oh, enteric. Hard luck, wasn't it? I thought you mightn't know. Gave me
a bit of a turn when I heard it."

Lawson nodded quickly and walked away. Philip felt a shiver pass through
his heart. He had never before lost a friend of his own age, for the death
of Cronshaw, a man so much older than himself, had seemed to come in the
normal course of things. The news gave him a peculiar shock. It reminded
him of his own mortality, for like everyone else Philip, knowing perfectly
that all men must die, had no intimate feeling that the same must apply to
himself; and Hayward's death, though he had long ceased to have any warm
feeling for him, affected him deeply. He remembered on a sudden all the
good talks they had had, and it pained him to think that they would never
talk with one another again; he remembered their first meeting and the
pleasant months they had spent together in Heidelberg. Philip's heart sank
as he thought of the lost years. He walked on mechanically, not noticing
where he went, and realised suddenly, with a movement of irritation, that
instead of turning down the Haymarket he had sauntered along Shaftesbury
Avenue. It bored him to retrace his steps; and besides, with that news, he
did not want to read, he wanted to sit alone and think. He made up his
mind to go to the British Museum. Solitude was now his only luxury. Since
he had been at Lynn's he had often gone there and sat in front of the
groups from the Parthenon; and, not deliberately thinking, had allowed
their divine masses to rest his troubled soul. But this afternoon they had
nothing to say to him, and after a few minutes, impatiently, he wandered
out of the room. There were too many people, provincials with foolish
faces, foreigners poring over guide-books; their