a moment at the crowd of faces that had spurned
the things he admired, looked as one who saw nothing, turned on his heel
and strode out of the room.

"Well, we won! Glorious!" said Ferrers.

"Yes," said Gordon, "'we have lit this day a candle that, by the grace
of God, shall never be put out'!"

He went down to hall, flushed with triumph. After all, there were some
compensations for everything; but he could not remove the feeling that
out of all the change and turmoil of his Fernhurst career he had
retained nothing tangible. He had written his name upon water; he had as
yet found nothing that would accompany him to the end of his journey. He
knew that his friendship for Morcombe would lead to nothing: very few
school friendships last more than a year or so after one or other has
left. He thought of Byron's line: "And friendships were formed too
romantic to last." It was too true, he had yet to find his real ideal.
He was about to begin the serious battle of life. He was standing on the
threshold. The night was black before him; he had no beacon fire to lead
him. He dimly perceived that beauty was the goal to which he was
striving. But he had only a vague comprehension of its meaning. He had
no philosophy. Doubtless in the end the Roman Church, the mother of
wanderers, would take him to her breast. But that was a long way off
yet, and he wished to bring himself to the final surrender, strong and
clean-hearted, not a vessel broken on the back-wash of existence. And
yet he had no true guide for the years that stretched before him. This
last episode of the debate seemed to bring it home to him more clearly.
His life had so far been composed of isolated triumphs and isolated
defeats, which had not yet so combined one with another as to form a
bedrock of experience which would serve as a standard for future
judgments. He had made merry, careless of what the next day would bring.
He had fought with "the Bull"; and in the struggle he had achieved some
things, and failed to achieve more. He had at one time prayed for the
long contention to cease; at another he had laughed in the face of his
enemy, flushed with the joy of battle. Gazing back on his past, he
seemed to stand as a spectator, watching a person who was himself and
yet not himself, going through a life of many varied experiences, now
plunging in the mud, now soaring to the heights. But the incidents only
affected him in a dull, subconscious manner. He had learnt noth