er than me. I said I
was ready to marry her when I was twenty-one, but there was another
chap, a decent fellow, devilish handsome, too. He was frightfully rich,
and so she agreed to elope with him. I helped them no end. I told her
father he simply must not attempt to interfere. But, of course, I was
frightfully cut up--oh, absolutely knocked out. We're all of us unlucky
in love in our family. My sister was in love with an Austrian who was
killed by an avalanche. I don't suppose I shall ever be in love again.
They say you never really fall in love more than once in your life. I
feel a good deal older this term. I suppose I look ... oh, well hit
indeed--run it out, and again, sir, and again ...!"

So Michael would break off the tale of his love, until one of his
listeners would seek to learn more of passion's frets and fevers.

"But, Bangs, what about the day she eloped? What did you do?"

"I wrote poetry," Michael would answer.

"Great Scott, that's a bit of a swat, isn't it?"

"Yes, it's a bit difficult," Michael would agree. "Only, of course, I
only write _vers libre_. No rhymes or anything."

And then an argument would arise as to whether poetry without rhymes
could fairly be called poetry at all. This argument, or another like it,
would last until the cricket stopped, when Michael and his fellows would
stroll into the pavilion and examine the scoring-book or criticize the
conduct of the game.

It was a pleasant time, that summer term, and life moved on very equably
for Michael, notwithstanding his Eastertide heartbreak. Alan caused him
a little trouble by his indifference to anything but cricket, and one
Sunday, when May had deepened into June, Michael took him to task for
his attitude. Alan had asked Michael over to Richmond for the week-end,
and the two of them had punted down the river towards Kew. They had
moored their boat under a weeping willow about the time when the bells
for church, begin to chime across the level water-meadows.

"Alan, aren't you ever going to fall in love?" Michael began.

"Why should I?" Alan countered in his usual way.

"I don't know. I think it's time you did," said Michael. "You've no idea
how much older it makes you feel. And I suppose you don't want to remain
a kid for ever. Because, you know, old chap, you are an awful kid beside
me."

"Thanks very much," said Alan. "I believe you're exactly one month
older, as a matter of fact."

"Yes, in actual time," said Michael ea