one feel that a first class was ever so slightly vulgar.  He described one of the vivas with tolerant humour; some fellow in an outrageous collar was asking him questions in logic; it was infinitely tedious, and suddenly he noticed that he wore elastic-sided boots:  it was grotesque and ridiculous; so he withdrew his mind and thought of the gothic beauty of the Chapel at King’s.  But he had spent some delightful days at Cambridge; he had given better dinners than anyone he knew; and the conversation in his rooms had been often memorable.  He quoted to Philip the exquisite epigram: 

“They told me, Herakleitus, they told me you were dead.”

And now, when he related again the picturesque little anecdote about the examiner and his boots, he laughed.

“Of course it was folly,” he said, “but it was a folly in which there was something fine.”

Philip, with a little thrill, thought it magnificent.

Then Hayward went to London to read for the Bar.  He had charming rooms in Clement’s Inn, with panelled walls, and he tried to make them look like his old rooms at the Hall.  He had ambitions that were vaguely political, he described himself as a Whig, and he was put up for a club which was of Liberal but gentlemanly flavour.  His idea was to practise at the Bar (he chose the Chancery side as less brutal), and get a seat for some pleasant constituency as soon as the various promises made him were carried out; meanwhile he went a great deal to the opera, and made acquaintance with a small number of charming people who admired the things that he admired.  He joined a dining-club of which the motto was, The Whole, The Good, and The Beautiful.  He formed a platonic friendship with a lady some years older than himself, who lived in Kensington Square; and nearly every afternoon he drank tea with her by the light of shaded candles, and talked of George Meredith and Walter Pater.  It was notorious that any fool could pass the examinations of the Bar Council, and he pursued his studies in a dilatory fashion.  When he was ploughed for his final he looked upon it as a personal affront.  At the same time the lady in Kensington Square told him that her husband was coming home from India on leave, and was a man, though worthy in every way, of a commonplace mind, who would not understand a young man’s frequent visits.  Hayward felt that life was full of ugliness, his soul revolted from the thought of affronting again the cynicism of examiners, and he saw something rather splendid in kicking away the ball which lay at his feet.  He was also a good deal in debt:  it was difficult to live in London like a gentleman on three hundred a year; and his heart yearned for the Venice and Florence which John Ruskin had so magically described.  He felt that he was unsuited to the vulgar bustle of the Bar, for he had discovered that it was not sufficient to put your name on a door to get briefs; and modern politics seemed to lack nobility.  He felt himself a poet.  He disposed of his rooms in Clement’s Inn and went to Italy.  He had spent a winter in Florence and a winter in Rome, and now was passing his second summer abroad in Germany so that he might read Goethe in the original.