“May I come in?” he asked.

Rose looked at him with an embarrassment that made him angry with Philip.

“Yes, if you want to.”

“It’s very kind of you,” said Philip sarcastically.

“What d’you want?”

“I say, why have you been so rotten since I came back?”

“Oh, don’t be an ass,” said Rose.

“I don’t know what you see in Hunter.”

“That’s my business.”

Philip looked down.  He could not bring himself to say what was in his heart.  He was afraid of humiliating himself.  Rose got up.

“I’ve got to go to the Gym,” he said.

When he was at the door Philip forced himself to speak.

“I say, Rose, don’t be a perfect beast.”

“Oh, go to hell.”

Rose slammed the door behind him and left Philip alone.  Philip shivered with rage.  He went back to his study and turned the conversation over in his mind.  He hated Rose now, he wanted to hurt him, he thought of biting things he might have said to him.  He brooded over the end to their friendship and fancied that others were talking of it.  In his sensitiveness he saw sneers and wonderings in other fellows’ manner when they were not bothering their heads with him at all.  He imagined to himself what they were saying.

“After all, it wasn’t likely to last long.  I wonder he ever stuck Carey at all.  Blighter!”

To show his indifference he struck up a violent friendship with a boy called Sharp whom he hated and despised.  He was a London boy, with a loutish air, a heavy fellow with the beginnings of a moustache on his lip and bushy eyebrows that joined one another across the bridge of his nose.  He had soft hands and manners too suave for his years.  He spoke with the suspicion of a cockney accent.  He was one of those boys who are too slack to play games, and he exercised great ingenuity in making excuses to avoid such as were compulsory.  He was regarded by boys and masters with a vague dislike, and it was from arrogance that Philip now sought his society.  Sharp in a couple of terms was going to Germany for a year.  He hated school, which he looked upon as an indignity to be endured till he was old enough to go out into the world.  London was all he cared for, and he had many stories to tell of his doings there during the holidays.  From his conversation—­he spoke in a soft, deep-toned voice—­there emerged the vague rumour of the London streets by night.  Philip listened to him at once fascinated and repelled.  With his vivid fancy he seemed to see the surging throng round the pit-door of theatres, and the glitter of cheap restaurants, bars where men, half drunk, sat on high stools talking with barmaids; and under the street lamps the mysterious passing of dark crowds bent upon pleasure.  Sharp lent him cheap novels from Holywell Row, which Philip read in his cubicle with a sort of wonderful fear.

Once Rose tried to effect a reconciliation.  He was a good-natured fellow, who did not like having enemies.