nteresting.

In second hall that evening Gordon discovered from a House list that
Morcombe was in the Army class. He consulted Foster on the subject.

"Know anything about a lad called Morcombe?"

"Yes; he is in the Army class. Rather a fool. Why?"

"Oh, nothing. I was talking to him in hall to-night. He didn't seem so
bad."

"Perhaps he isn't. I haven't taken much interest in him."

"I see."

Gordon returned to his book. Five minutes later he began again.

"Is Morcombe fairly high in form?"

"Not very. Why this sudden interest?"

"Nothing."

Foster looked at him for a second, then burst out laughing.

"What the hell's the matter with you?" said Gordon.

"Oh, nothing."

Gordon looked fierce, and returned once more to the history of Michael
Fane.

Two nights later Gordon came into his study to find Morcombe sitting
with Foster, preparing some con.

"Hope you don't mind me bringing this lad in," said Foster, "I am in
great difficulties with some con."

Gordon grunted, and proceeded to bury himself in _The Pot of Basil_.

"I say, Caruthers," broke in Foster. "You might help us with this
Vergil? It's got us licked. Here you are: look, 'Fortunate Senex----'"

Gordon went through the familiar passage with comparative ease.

"There now, you see," said Foster, "there's some use in these Sixth Form
slackers after all. By the way, what did you think of Claremont's sermon
last night?"

Conversation flowed easily. Morcombe was quick, and, at times, amusing.
Gordon unaccountably found himself trying to appear at his best.

"You know," he was saying, "I do get so sick of these masters who go
about with the theory of 'God's in his heaven, all's right with the
world,' and in war-time, too! With all these men falling, and no advance
being made from day to day."

"Yes," said Morcombe; "I agree with the 'much good, but much less good
than ill' philosophy."

Gordon was surprised out of himself.

"I shouldn't have thought you had read the _Shropshire Lad_."

"We are not all Philistines, you know."

Thus began a friendship entirely different from any Gordon had known
before. He did not know what his real sentiments were; he did not even
attempt to analyse them. He only knew that when he was with Morcombe he
was indescribably happy. There was something in him so natural, so
unaffected, so sensitive to beauty. After this Morcombe came up to
Gordon's study nearly every evening, and usually Foster left them alo