When at last they all met again, the expression on the face of each made an interesting study. Henry Hope was characteristically grave, and he stood with his crony watching Rouse with the eyes of a faithful dog. Terence was last to return, and he wore the expression of one who has some secret joy, whilst Rouse himself, who had been working exceedingly hard, looked hot and untidy. Nevertheless, his eyes were shining with the light of intense self-satisfaction. It was clear that he was itching to deliver himself of a few well-chosen words such as might indicate to his listeners the peculiar ingenuity of those things which he had achieved. In matters that concerned Henry Rouse was not a prefect at all; he was just an old friend. Henry Hope had more than once saved Rouse’s skin, and in spite of his great place in the school Rouse did not forget these little things. He welcomed Terence with an excited gesture, and then clapped a hand on his shoulder and peered tensely into his face. “You’ve hardly changed at all,” said he. “The same old crooked eyes, the same solitary tooth projecting over your underlip, the same old passion socks! It seems scarcely any time since you went a-way-ee, and yet ... what do you notice in me? A suspicion of grey in the hair?” “A suspicion of egg on the mouth, if anything.” Rouse was a trifle taken aback. “What’s the matter anyway?” asked Terence. “You’ve been gone such a deuce of a long time. That’s the matter. And never so much as a line to your own folk to let them know how you were getting on. Even now you’ve brought nothing.” “Yes, I have brought along a friend.”