"'Varsity." It was at that time the
proper thing to speak of "the University."

"I haven't the time," pursued Mr. Dawes.

"No, no," said Rickie politely.

"I had the chance of being an Undergrad, myself, and, by Jove, I'm
thankful I didn't!"

"Why?" asked Agnes, for there was a pause.

"Puts you back in your profession. Men who go there first, before the
Army, start hopelessly behind. The same with the Stock Exchange or
Painting. I know men in both, and they've never caught up the time they
lost in the 'Varsity--unless, of course, you turn parson."

"I love Cambridge," said she. "All those glorious buildings, and every
one so happy and running in and out of each other's rooms all day long."

"That might make an Undergrad happy, but I beg leave to state it
wouldn't me. I haven't four years to throw away for the sake of being
called a 'Varsity man and hobnobbing with Lords."

Rickie was prepared to find his old schoolfellow ungrammatical and
bumptious, but he was not prepared to find him peevish. Athletes, he
believed, were simple, straightforward people, cruel and brutal if you
like, but never petty. They knocked you down and hurt you, and then went
on their way rejoicing. For this, Rickie thought, there is something to
be said: he had escaped the sin of despising the physically strong--a
sin against which the physically weak must guard. But here was Dawes
returning again and again to the subject of the University, full of
transparent jealousy and petty spite, nagging, nagging, nagging, like
a maiden lady who has not been invited to a tea-party. Rickie wondered
whether, after all, Ansell and the extremists might not be right, and
bodily beauty and strength be signs of the soul's damnation.

He glanced at Agnes. She was writing down some orderings for the
tradespeople on a piece of paper. Her handsome face was intent on the
work. The bench on which she and Gerald were sitting had no back, but
she sat as straight as a dart. He, though strong enough to sit straight,
did not take the trouble.

"Why don't they talk to each other?" thought Rickie.

"Gerald, give this paper to the cook."

"I can give it to the other slavey, can't I?"

"She'd be dressing."

"Well, there's Herbert."

"He's busy. Oh, you know where the kitchen is. Take it to the cook."

He disappeared slowly behind the tree.

"What do you think of him?" she immediately asked. He murmured civilly.

"Has he changed since he was a schoolboy?"