and lit a Latakia cigarette.

It was a lovely August morning in the Eights of 18--; and the stroke of
the Charsley Hall boat reclined wearily in his luxuriously furnished
apartments within that venerable College and watched the midday sun
gilding the pinnacles of the Martyr's Memorial. It had been a fast and
furious night, and Trevyllyan had lost more I.O.U.s than even he cared to
remember: and now he was very weary of it all. Had it not been for one
thing, he would have thrown it all up--sent dons, deans, duns, and dice
to the devil, and gone down by the afternoon train: as it was, there was
nothing for it but to recline on his tiger-skins and smoke countless
cigars. He never would train.

"Going to row to-day, Fane?" It was little Bagley Wood, the cox.
Trevyllyan sanctioned his presence as if he had been a cat or a lapdog:
to all others he was stern and unapproachable--a true representative of
his Order.

"Don't know, _caro mio_," was the reply. "It's such a bore, you know:
and then I half think I promised to take La Montmorenci of the Frivolity
up the Cherwell to Trumpington in the University Barge."

"What! when the Lady Gwendolen de St. Emilion has come down on purpose to
see us catch Christ Church! why, _sapristi_, where can your eyes be?"
The stroke hissed something between his clenched teeth, and Bagley Wood
found himself flying through an unopened window.

"_Cherchez la femme_! it's always the way with the Trevyllyans," muttered
the lad, as he picked himself up from the grass plot in the quadrangle
and strolled off to quiet his nerves with a glass of _aguardiente_ at the
Mitre.

* * * * *

An August moon shone brightly on the last night of the great aquatic
contest: the starter had fired his pistol, and all the boats but one were
off.

"Hadn't you better think about starting, Trevyllyan?" asked the coach of
the Charsley Hall Eight, a trifle pale and anxious. "See, they are all
under way. Glanville Ferrers, the Christ Church stroke, swears you
shan't bump him as you did last week. He must be past the Soapworks by
this time."

"_Caramba_! then I suppose we ought to get in," replied the other; and as
he spoke he divested himself of the academical garb that scarcely
concealed his sky-blue tights, and stood, a model of manly beauty, on the
banks of the rushing river. Then, throwing away a half-finished cigar,
Trevyllyan strode into the boat. _Per Bacco_! 'twas a m