between Jack and the Master on the subject of reading the lessons in chapel, and imitated the suave tones of that courteous old gentleman to the life.  “Far be it from me to deny it was dramatic, Mr. Sandys, but I should prefer a slightly more devotional tone.”  He related with great good-humour how a heavy, well-meaning, and rather censorious undergraduate had waited behind in his room on an evening when he had been entertaining the company with some imitations, and had said, “You are fond of imitating people, Guthrie, and you do it a great deal; but you ought to say who it is you are imitating, because one can’t be quite sure!”

Mr. Sandys was immensely amused by the young man, and had related some of his own experiences in elocution—­how his clerk on the first occasion of reading the lesson at Windlow was reported to have said, “Why, you might think he had been there, in a manner of speaking.”

Guthrie was not in the least concerned to keep the conversation in his own hands, and received Mr. Sandys’ stories with exactly the right amount of respectful interest and amusement.  But the result of all this upon Howard was to make him feel extraordinarily heavy and elderly.  He felt that he and Mr. Sandys were the make-weights of the party, and he was conscious that his own contributions were wanting in liveliness.

Maud was extraordinarily amused by the bits of mimicry that came in, because it was so well done that it inspired everyone with the feeling that mimicry was the one art worth practising; and Mr. Sandys himself launched into dialect stories, in which Somersetshire rustics began by saying, “Hoots, mon!” and ended by saying, “The ould divil hissilf.”

After luncheon it became clear that Jack had given up the afternoon as a bad job, and suggested that they should all go down to the river.  The rowing man excused himself, and Howard followed his example, pleading occupation of a vague kind.  Mr. Sandys was enchanted at the prospect, and they went off in the charge of Guthrie, who was free, promising to return and have tea in his rooms.  Guthrie, who was a friend of Howard’s, included him in the invitation, but Howard said that he could not promise, but would look in if he could.

As a matter of fact, he went out for a lonely walk, ashamed of himself for his stupidity.  He could not put himself in the position, he dismally thought, of competing for Maud’s attention.

He walked off round by Madingley, hardly aware of what road he was taking.  By the little chalk-pit just outside the village a rustic pair, a boy and girl, stood sheepishly clasped in a dull and silent embrace.  Howard, to whom public exhibitions of emotion were distasteful, walked swiftly by with averted eyes, when suddenly a poignant thought came on him, causing him to redden up to the roots of his hair, and walk faster than ever.  It was this, then, that was the matter with him—­he was in love, he was jealous, he was the victim of the oldest,