for writing." But John did not understand. He
wrote regularly to Desmond; no answer came in return.

At the end of the Christmas holidays John returned to Harrow. He was
now Head of his House, and very nearly Head of the School. The weeks
went by slowly. Soon, he and a few others would travel to Oxford for
their examination; there would be the strenuous excitement of
competition, and the final announcement of success or failure. To all
this John told himself that he was lukewarm. Nothing seemed to matter
since he had lost sight of Caesar's face, since the train whirled his
friend out of his life. But he worked hard, so hard that the Head
Master bade him beware of a breakdown.

The hour of triumph came. John had gratified his own and Warde's
ambition; he was a Scholar of Christ Church. And this well-earned
success seemed to thaw something in his heart. The congratulations,
the warm hand-clasps, the generous joy of schoolfellows not as
fortunate, restored his moral circulation. A whole holiday was granted
in honour of his success at Oxford. He told himself that now he would
take things easy and enjoy himself. The clouds in South Africa were
lifting, everybody said the glorious end was in sight. And so far
Desmond had escaped wounds and sickness. He had received a commission
in Beauregard's Irregular Horse; in the five days' action about Spion
Kop he behaved with conspicuous gallantry. Scaife, having obtained his
billet of Galloper, was with a General under Lord Methuen.

On the last Monday but one in the term, John was entering the Manor
just before lock-up, when a Sixth Form boy from another house passed
him, running.

"Have you heard about poor Scaife?" he called out.

"No--what?"

"Warde will tell you; he knows." The boy ran on, not wishing to be
late.

John ran too with his heart thumping against his side. He felt
certain, from the expression upon the boy's face, that Scaife was dead.
And John recalled with intense bitterness and humiliation moments in
past years when he had wished that Scaife would die. Charles Desmond
had told him only three weeks before that his Harry hoped to join the
smart cavalry regiment in which a commission had been promised to
Scaife. At that moment John was sensible of an inordinate desire for
anything that might come between this wish and its fulfilment. And
now, Scaife might be lying dead.

He found Warde in his study staring at a telegram. He looked