“I don't care. I'd misinterpret anybody--even you. I've had enough of Oxford for a time. You see I have had a long spell since January. There were Entrance Scholarships and a lot of bursarial work for Evans to be done that kept me up nearly all the Easter vacation. I suppose you are right. I want a change.” “The mountain air would be better for you than a stuffy town.” “Oh, good gracious!” laughed Raine, swelling out his deep chest, “I am healthy enough. You don't presume to say I am pale with overwork!” “No,” said the Junior Dean, mentally contrasting his own spare form with his colleague's muscular development. “You have a constitution like an ox. But you would get better air into your lungs and better rest in your mind.” “Well, perhaps you are right,” said Raine. “Anyhow, if Geneva gets too hot for me, I can come to you and sit on the top of the Jungfrau with some snow on my head and get cool.” The Junior Dean, in spite of his sentiment, was a man of the world, and he scented a metaphor in Raine's speech. He glanced at him keenly through his _pince-nez_. Whereupon Raine burst out laughing and took him by the arm. “Look here, are you going to put in an appearance at the St. John's garden-party?” “Yes.” “Well, time is getting on. Let us go.” And on their way thither down the Broad, they discussed the Masonic Ball, the results of the Schools, the prospects of the cricket match, and kindred subjects, such as are dear to the hearts of dons in summer time. The first person that Raine met at the Garden Party was his cousin, Mrs. Monteith. She skilfully disposed of a couple of pretty nieces she was chaperoning to some passing undergraduates, and walked up and down the lawn by his side. She was a small, pretty, keen-faced woman, some two or three years his senior. Once upon a time she had fostered a conviction that Raine and herself had been born for one another, and had sought to share his soul's secrets. As long as she depended upon his initiative, all went well; but one day, having forced open a scrupulously locked apartment, she recoiled in pained surprise. Whereupon she decided that she had mistaken the intentions of the Creator, and forthwith married Dr. Monteith, whose soul's secrets were as neatly docketed and catalogued as the slips of his unfinished Homeric Lexicon. But she always claimed a vested interest in Raine's welfare, which he, in a laughing, contented way, was pleased to allow. “So you're off to Switzerland,” she said. “What are you going to do there, besides seeing Uncle Louis?” “Rest,” he replied. “Live in a pension and rest.” “You'll find it dismally uninteresting. How long are you going to stay there?” “Possibly most of the Long.” Mrs. Monteith opened her eyes and stopped twirling her parasol. “My dear Raine! In Geneva?” “My dear Nora, I really don't see anything in that to create such surprise. I've just had Rogers expressing himself on the subject. Why shouldn't I live in Geneva? What objection have you?”