'I used that idea of the wheel in a cinema film once. I think it rather sounds like it, don't you? What was it I came back for?

'A nail file.

'Oh yes, of course. I know of no more utterly boring and futile occupation than generalizing about life. Did you take in what I was saying?

'Yes, I think so.

'I think I shall have my meals alone in future. Will you tell the servants? It makes me feel quite ill to talk so much. Good night.

'Good night, said Paul.

Some months later Paul returned to Scone College after the absence of little more than a year. His death, though depriving him of his certificates, left him his knowledge. He sat successfully for smalls and Matriculation and entered his old college once more, wearing a commoner's gown and a heavy cavalry moustache. This and his natural diffidence formed a complete disguise. Nobody recognized him. After much doubt and deliberation he retained the name of Pennyfeather, explaining to the Chaplain that he had, he believed, had a distant cousin at Scone a short time ago.

'He came to a very sad end, said the Chaplain, 'a wild young man.

'He was a very distant cousin, said Paul hastily.

'Yes, yes, I am sure he was. There is no resemblance between you. He was a thoroughly degenerate type, I am afraid.

Paul's scout also remembered the name.

'There used to be another Mr Pennyfeather on this staircase once, he said, 'a very queer gentleman indeed. Would you believe it, sir, he used to take off all his clothes and go out and dance in the quad at night. Nice quiet gentleman, too, he was, except for his dancing. He must have been a little queer in his head, I suppose. I don't know what became of him. They say he died in prison. Then he procceded to tell Paul about an Annamese student who had attempted to buy one of the Senior Tutor's daughters.

On the second Sunday of term the Chaplain asked Paul to breakfast. 'It's a sad thing, he said, 'the way that the 'Varsity breakfast ‑ «brekker» we used to call it in my day ‑ is dying out. People haven't time for it. Always off to lectures at nine o'clock, except on Sundays. Have another kidney, won't you?

There was another don present, called Mr Sniggs, who addressed the Chaplain rather superciliously, Paul thought, as 'Padre'.

There was also an undergraduate from another college, a theological student called Stubbs, a grave young man with a quiet voice and with carefully formed opinions. He had a little argument with Mr Sniggs about the plans for rebuilding the Bodleian. Paul supported him.

Next day Paul found Stubbs' card on his table, the corner turned up. Paul went to Hertford to call on Stubbs, but found him out. He left his card, the corner turned up. Two days later a little note came from Hertford:

Dear Pennyfeather,

I wonder if you would care to come to tea next Tuesday, to meet the College Secretary of the League of Nations Union and the Chaplain of the Oxford prison. It would be so nice if you could.

Paul went and ate honey buns and anchovy toast. He liked the ugly, subdued little College, and he liked Stubbs.

As term went on Paul and Stubbs took to going for walks together, over Mesopotamia to Old Marston and Beckley. One afternoon, quite lighthearted at the fresh weather, and their long walk, and their tea, Stubbs signed Randall Cantuar in the visitors' book.

Paul rejoined the League of Nations Union and the O.S.C.U. On one occasion he and Stubbs and some other friends went to the prison to visit the criminals there and sing part‑songs to them.

'It opens the mind, said Stubbs, 'to see all sides of life. How those unfortunate men appreciated our singing!

One day in Blackwell's bookshop Paul found a stout volume, which, the assistant told him, was rapidly becoming a best‑seller. It was called Mother Wales, by Augustus Fagan. Paul bought it and took it back with him. Stubbs had already read it.

'Most illuminating, he said. 'The hospital statistics are terrible. Do you think it would be a good idea to organize a joint debate with Jesus on the subject? The book was dedicated To my wife, a wedding present'. It was eloquently written. When he had read it Paul put it on his shelves next to Dean Stanley's Eastern Church.

One other incident recalled momentarily Paul's past life.

One day at the beginning of his second year, as Paul and Stubbs were bicycling down the High as from one lecture to another, they nearly ran into an open Rolls-Royce that swung out of Oriel Street at a dangerous speed. In the back, a heavy fur rug over his knees, sat Philbrick. He turned round as he passed and waved a gloved hand to Paul over the hood.

'Hullo! he said; 'hullo! How are you! Come and look me up one day. I'm living on the river ‑ Skindle's.

Then the car disappeared down the High Street, and Paul went on to the lecture.

'Who was your opulent frient? asked Stubbs, rather impresed.

'Arnold Bennet, said Paul.

'I thought I knew his face, said Stubbs.

Then the lecturer came in, arranged his papers, and began a lucid exposition of the heresies of the second century. There was a bishop of Bithynia, Paul learned, who had denied the Divinity of Christ, the immortality of the soul, the existence of good, the legality of marriage, and the validity of the Sacrament of Extreme Unction. How right they had been to condemn him!

It was Paul's third year of uneventful residence at Scone. Stubbs finished his cocoa, knocked out his pipe and rose to go. 'I must be off to my digs, he said. 'You're lucky staying in college. It's a long ride back to Walton Street on a night like this.

'D'you want to take Von Hugel? asked Paul.

'No, not to‑night. May I leave it till to‑morrow?

Stubbs picked up his scholar's gown and wrapped it round his shoulders. 'That was an interesting paper to‑night about the Polish plebiscites.

'Yes, wasn't it? said Paul.

Outside there was a confused roanng and breaking of glass.

'The Bollinger seem to be enjoying themselves, said Paul. 'Whose rooms are they in this time?

'Pastmaster's, I think. That young man seems to be going a bit fast for his age.

'Well, I hope he enjoys it, said Paul. 'Good night.

'Good night, Paul, said Stubbs.

Paul put the chocolate biscuits back in the cupboard, refilled his pipe, and settled down in his chair.

Presently he heard footsteps and a knock at his door.

'Come in, he said, looking round.

Peter Pastmaster came into the room. He was dressed in the bottle‑green and white evening coat of the Bollinger Club. His face was flushed and his dark hair slightly disordered.

'May I come in?

'Yes, do.

'Have you got a drink?

'You seem to have had a good many already.

'I've had the Boller in my rooms. Noisy lot. Oh, hell! I must have a drink.

'There's some whisky in the cupboard. You're drinking rather a lot these days, aren't you, Peter?

Peter said nothing, but helped himself to some whisky and soda.

'Feeling a bit ill, he said. Then, after a pause, 'Paul why have you been cutting me all this time?

'I don't know. I didn't think there was much to be gained by our knowing each other.

'Not angry about anything?

'No, why should I be?

'Oh, I don't know. Peter turned his glass in his hand, staring at it intently. 'I've been rather angry with you, you know.

'Why?

'Oh, I don't know ‑ about Margot and the man Maltravers and everything.

'I don't think I was much to blame.

'No, I suppose not, only you were part of it all.

'How's Margot?

'She's all right ‑ Margot Metroland. D'you mind if I take another drink?

'I suppose not.