"one can't be too careful in matters of this
sort. In a community like this sentimental attachments won't do. We
prefects are responsible for the moral health of the school and we've
got to keep our fingers on its pulse...." He prosed away and Martin
regarded the literature he favoured. He read, it seemed, Seton
Merriman and the publications of the Agenda Club. Suddenly he realised
that Heseltine was saying: "I want you to promise me to see less of
him."

Martin flared up at once. "I don't see why," he said angrily.

"I've given my reasons. He's not a fit friend for you."

"Surely that's for me to judge."

"You're not infallible. I'm only speaking for your good. I should
like to have your promise. I know I can't compel you, but I ask it as
a favour."

"I think my friends are my own affair," answered Martin, infuriated by
what he considered to be the oiliness, the furtive oiliness, of
Heseltine's methods.

During the next three days Martin was constantly with Anstey and, as a
result, Heseltine declared war. He definitely forbade the friends to
visit each other's studies without permission, and on the following
evening he swiped Anstey for impertinence. To swipe a member of the
Sixth was a violation of tradition but not of law. Not even Anstey
could have denied that he had been sublimely impertinent, but his
appeal was to custom. Heseltine smiled calmly and said that he
couldn't be limited by hide-bound traditions when the maintenance of
discipline was at stake. He enjoyed his triumph and did not spare his
victim.

The news came to Martin through Rayner, who, though secretly pleased at
Anstey's discomfiture, honestly admitted that Heseltine hadn't played
the game. Martin listened to him in silence: he did not volunteer any
conversation and was glad that Rayner went away at once.

He picked up a book and went straight to Heseltine's study.

"Can I speak to Anstey?" he asked quietly, "It's about some words in
Homer!"

Heseltine looked at him suspiciously: he could hardly call him a liar
to his face. "Very well," he said. "But don't stay."

Martin found Anstey in his arm-chair. His face was very white and when
he saw Martin he smiled the forced, flickering smile that is so often
born of an effort to conceal pain.

"It's all right," said Martin, "I've got permission."

Anstey told him to sit down.

"It's frightfully rotten luck," Martin began. "Heseltine is simply a
devil."

"He didn't