Even so quiet a thing as a walk was not unattended by a certain amount of ceremonial.  Howard passed some six or seven men of his acquaintance, some of whom presented a stick or raised a stiff hand without a smile or indeed any sign of recognition; one went so far as to say, “Hullo, Kennedy!” and one eager conversationalist went so far as to say, “Out for a walk?” Howard pushed on, walking lightly and rapidly, and found himself at last at Barton, one of those entirely delightful pastoral villages that push up so close to Cambridge on every side; a vague collection of quaint irregular cottages, whitewashed and thatched, with bits of green common interspersed, an old manorial farm with its byres and ricks, surrounded by a moat fringed with little pollarded elms.  The plain ancient tower of the church looked gravely out over all.  In the distance, over pastoral country, rose low wolds, pleasantly shaped, skirted with little hamlets, surrounded by orchards; the old untroubled necessary work of the world flows on in these fields and villages, peopled with lives hardly conscious of themselves, with no aims or theories, just toiling, multiplying, dying, existing, it would seem, merely to feed and clothe the more active part of the world.  Howard loved such little interludes of silence, out in the fresh country, when the calm life of tree and herb, the delicate whisper of dry, evenly-blowing breezes, tranquillised and hushed his restless thoughts.  He lost himself in a formless reverie, exercising no control over his trivial thoughts.

By four o’clock he was back, made himself some tea, put on a cap and gown, and walked out to a meeting.  In a high bare room in the University offices the Committee sat.  The Vice-Chancellor, a big, grave, solid man, Master of St. Benedict’s, sat in courteous state.  Half a dozen dons sat round the great tables, ranged in a square.  The business was mostly formal.  The Vice-Chancellor read the points from a paper in his resonant voice, comments and suggestions were made, and the Secretary noted down conclusions.  Howard was struck, as he often had been before, to see how the larger questions of principle passed almost unnoticed, while the smaller points, such as the wording of a notice, were eagerly and humorously debated by men of acute minds and easy speech.  It was over in half an hour.  Howard strolled off with one of the members, and then, returning to his rooms, wrote some letters, and looked up a lecture for the next day, till the bell rang for Hall.

Beaufort was a hospitable and sociable College, and guests often appeared at dinner.  On this night Mr. Redmayne was in the chair, at the end of a long table; eight or ten dons were present.  A gong was struck; an undergraduate came up and scrambled through a Latin Grace from a board which he held in his hand.  The tables filled rapidly with lively young men full of talk and appetite.  Howard found himself sitting next one of his colleagues, on the