But no such opportunity was given to him now, or during his short sojourn at the Grange.  After a while the old man returned to the room and took him up to his bed-chamber.  It was then about half-past four, and he was told that they were to dine at six.  It was early in November,—­not cold enough for bedroom fires among thrifty people, and there he was left, apparently to spend an hour with nothing to do.  Rebelling against this, declaring that even at Puritan Grange he would be master of his own actions, he rushed down into the hall, took his hat, and walked off into the town.  He would go and take one last look at the old college.

He went in through the great gate and across the yard, and passing by the well-known buttery-hatches, looked into the old hall for the last time.  The men were all seated at dinner, and he could see the fellows up at the high table.  Three years ago it had been his fixed resolve to earn for himself the right to sit upon that dais.  He had then been sure of himself,—­that he would do well, and take honours, and win a fellowship.  There had been moments in which he had thought that a college life would suit him till he came into his own property.  But how had all that faded away!  Everybody had congratulated him on the ease with which he did his work,—­and the result had been Newmarket, Davis, and a long score in the ephemeral records of a cricket match.  As he stood there, with his slouched hat over his eyes, one of the college servants recognised him, and called him by his name.  Then he passed on quickly, and made his way out to the gravel-walk by the river-side.  It was not yet closed for the night, and he went on, that he might take one last turn up and down the old avenue.

He had certainly made a failure of his life so far.  He did acknowledge to himself that there was something nobler in these classic shades than in the ore-laden dirt of an Australian gold-gully.  He knew as much of the world as that.  He had not hitherto chosen the better part, and now something of regret, even as to Folking,—­poor old Folking,—­came upon him.  He was, as it were, being kicked out and repudiated by his own family as worthless.  And what was he to do about Julia Babington?  After that scene in the linen-closet, he could not leave his country without a word either to Julia or to aunt Polly.  But the idea of Julia was doubly distasteful to him since that lovely vision of young female simplicity had shone upon him from the corner of Mrs. Bolton’s drawing-room.  Romping with the Babington girls was all very well; but if he could only feel the tips of that girl’s fingers come within the grasp of his hand!  Then he thought that it would lend a fine romance to his life if he could resolve to come back, when he should be laden with gold, and make Hester Bolton his wife.  It should be his romance, and he swore that he would cling to it.