He had been asked at the outset by one of these friends what sort of things he meant to “go in for.”  He had said that he didn’t exactly know.  “Must one go in for anything, except exams?” The friend, who was vigorously inclined, had said that one certainly ought.  One could—­he had measured Peter’s frail physique and remembered all the things he couldn’t do—­play golf.  Peter had thought that one really couldn’t; it was such a chilly game.  Well, of course, one might speak at the Union, said the persevering friend, insisting, it seemed, on finding Peter a career.  “Don’t they talk about politics?” enquired Peter.  “I couldn’t do that, you know.  I don’t approve of politics.  If ever I have a vote I shall sell it to the highest female bidder.  Fancy being a Liberal or a Conservative, out of all the nice things there are in the world to be!  There are health-fooders, now.  I’d rather be that.  And teetotallers.  A man told me he was a teetotaller to-day.  I’ll go in for that if you like, because I don’t much like wine.  And I hate beer.  These are rather nice chocolates—­I mean, they were.”

The indefatigable friend had further informed him that one might be a Fabian and have a red tie, and encourage the other Fabians to wash.  Or one might ride.

“One might—­” Peter had made a suggestion of his own—­“ride a motor bicycle.  I saw a man on one to-day; I mean he had been on it—­it was on him at the moment; it had chucked him off and was dancing on him, and something that smelt was coming out of a hole.  He was such a long way from home; I was sorry about it.”

His friend had said, “Serve him right.  Brute,” expressing the general feeling of the moment about men who rode motor bicycles.

“Isn’t it funny,” Peter had reflectively said.  “They must get such an awful headache first—­and then to be chucked off and jumped on so hard, and covered with the smelly stuff—­and then to have to walk home dragging it, when it’s deformed and won’t run on its wheels.  Unless, of course, one is blown up into little bits and is at rest....  But it is so awfully, frightfully ugly, to look at and to smell and to hear.  Like your wallpaper, you know.”

Peter’s eyes had rested contentedly on his own peaceful green walls.  He really hadn’t felt in the least like “going in for” anything, either motor bicycling or examinations.

“I suppose you’ll just footle, then,” his friend had summed it up, and left him, because it was half-past six, and they had dinner at that strange hour.  That was why they were able to run it into their tea, since obviously nothing could be done between, even by Peter’s energetic friend.  This friend had little hope for Peter.  Of course, he would just footle; he always had.  But one was, nevertheless, rather fond of him.  One would like him to do things, and have a sporting time.