. They gloried in Bertram's idleness; told
stories, not quite veracious, of his doings at wine-parties; and
proved, to the satisfaction of admiring freshmen, that he thought of
nothing but his horse and his boating. He could do without study more
than any other man could do with it; and as for that plodding Balliol
hero, he might look to be beaten out of the field without an effort.

The Balliol men had been very confident in their hero up to the last
half-year; but then they began to doubt. Poor Wilkinson was beaten by
his rival out of the field, though, probably, not without an effort.
We may say that no man ever gets a double-first in anything without
an effort. But be that as it may, Wilkinson was sitting alone, a very
unhappy man, in his rooms at Balliol, while Bertram was being feted
to his heart's content at Trinity.

It is a grievous thing to have to write home to one's father, and to
say that one has failed when that father has so anxiously longed for
success. Arthur Wilkinson would have been a made man for life--made
according to the making which both his father and himself at that
time thought the most desirable--if his name had but appeared in
that first-class list. A double-first his father had not hoped for;
but, in resolving not to hope for it, he had consoled himself with
thinking that the hopes which he did form were the more certain of
success;--and then there would always be that further chance of
happiness in store. But now Arthur Wilkinson had to tell his father
that he was neither first nor double-first. His degree was very
respectable for a man who had not looked for much, for one who had
not been talked of in high places; but it was not respectable for
Wilkinson of Balliol.

Vae victis! He was indeed unhappy as he sat there alone, meditating
how he would frame his letter. There were no telegraphs or telegrams
in those days, and it behoved him to write. If he did not, his father
would be at Oxford before the next night was over. How should he
write? Would it not be better to write to his mother? And then what
should he do, or what should he say, about that accursed debt?

His pen and ink and paper were on the table, and he had got into his
chair for the purpose. There he had been for some half-hour, but
still not a word was written; and his chair had somehow got itself
dragged round to the fire. He was thus sitting when he heard a loud
knock at his outer door.

"Come; open the door," said Be