fessional matters
with Chifney meanwhile; or, turning his horse's head towards the wide,
distant view, sit silent, drawing near to nature and worshipping--with
the innocent gladness of a still virgin heart--in the temple of the
dawn.

Life at Oxford was set in a different key. The university city was well
disposed towards this young man of so great wealth and so strange
fortunes; and Richard was unsuspicious, and ready enough to meet
friendliness half-way. Yet it must be owned he suffered many bad
quarters of an hour. He was, at once, older in thought and younger in
practical experience than his fellow-undergraduates. He was cut off, of
necessity, from their sports. They would eat his breakfasts, drink his
wine, and show no violent objection to riding his horses. They were
considerate, almost anxiously careful of him, being generous and
good-hearted lads. And yet poor Dick was perturbed by the fear that
they were more at ease without him, that his presence acted as a slight
check upon their genial spirits and their rattling talk. And so it came
about that though his acquaintances were many, his friends were few.
Chief among the latter was Ludovic Quayle, a younger son of Lord
Fallowfeild--whom that kindly if not very intelligent nobleman had long
ago proposed to export from the Whitney to the Brockhurst nursery with
a view to the promotion of general cheerfulness. Mr. Ludovic Quayle was
a rather superfine, young gentleman, possessed of an excellent opinion
of himself, and a modest opinion of other persons--his father included.
But under his somewhat supercilious demeanour there was a vein of true
romance. He loved Richard Calmady; and neither time, nor opposing
interests, nor certain black chapters which had later to be read in the
history of life, destroyed or even weakened that love.

And so Dick, finding himself at sad disadvantage with most of the
charming young fellows about him in matters of play, turned to matters
of work, letting go the barbarian side of life for a while. In brain,
if not in body, he believed himself the equal of the best of them. His
ambition was fired by the desire of intellectual triumph. He would have
the success of the schools, since the success of the river and the
cricket-field were denied him. Not that Richard set any exaggerated
value upon academic honours. Only two things are necessary--this at
least was his code at that period--never to lapse from the instincts of
high-breeding and