“How long are you going to stay here?” asked Wharton.

Both he and Philip had given up with relief the pretence of mathematics.

“Oh, I don’t know.  I suppose about a year.  Then my people want me to go to Oxford.”

Wharton gave a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders.  It was a new experience for Philip to learn that there were persons who did not look upon that seat of learning with awe.

“What d’you want to go there for?  You’ll only be a glorified schoolboy.  Why don’t you matriculate here?  A year’s no good.  Spend five years here.  You know, there are two good things in life, freedom of thought and freedom of action.  In France you get freedom of action:  you can do what you like and nobody bothers, but you must think like everybody else.  In Germany you must do what everybody else does, but you may think as you choose.  They’re both very good things.  I personally prefer freedom of thought.  But in England you get neither:  you’re ground down by convention.  You can’t think as you like and you can’t act as you like.  That’s because it’s a democratic nation.  I expect America’s worse.”

He leaned back cautiously, for the chair on which he sat had a ricketty leg, and it was disconcerting when a rhetorical flourish was interrupted by a sudden fall to the floor.

“I ought to go back to England this year, but if I can scrape together enough to keep body and soul on speaking terms I shall stay another twelve months.  But then I shall have to go.  And I must leave all this”—­he waved his arm round the dirty garret, with its unmade bed, the clothes lying on the floor, a row of empty beer bottles against the wall, piles of unbound, ragged books in every corner—­“for some provincial university where I shall try and get a chair of philology.  And I shall play tennis and go to tea-parties.”  He interrupted himself and gave Philip, very neatly dressed, with a clean collar on and his hair well-brushed, a quizzical look.  “And, my God!  I shall have to wash.”

Philip reddened, feeling his own spruceness an intolerable reproach; for of late he had begun to pay some attention to his toilet, and he had come out from England with a pretty selection of ties.

The summer came upon the country like a conqueror.  Each day was beautiful.  The sky had an arrogant blue which goaded the nerves like a spur.  The green of the trees in the Anlage was violent and crude; and the houses, when the sun caught them, had a dazzling white which stimulated till it hurt.  Sometimes on his way back from Wharton Philip would sit in the shade on one of the benches in the Anlage, enjoying the coolness and watching the patterns of light which the sun, shining through the leaves, made on the ground.  His soul danced with delight as gaily as the sunbeams.  He revelled in those moments of idleness stolen from his work.  Sometimes he sauntered through the streets of the old town.  He looked with awe at the students of the corps, their cheeks gashed and red, who swaggered about in their coloured caps.  In the afternoons he wandered about the hills with the girls in the Frau Professor’s house, and sometimes they went up the river and had tea in a leafy beer-garden.  In the evenings they walked round and round the Stadtgarten, listening to the band.