Lunch took a considerable time, for David’s appetite, like his bones and muscles, seemed but to grow larger with the food he ate, and it was not till he had taken Frank’s evil advice and drunk a second bottle of ginger-beer that he declared himself able to turn his attention to literature again. They were going to play golf once more in half an hour, and David staggered out on to the lawn to lie on the shady terrace-bank for a short spell of Swinburne, which Frank went to fetch from his bedroom. Letters had arrived during lunch, and he found one for himself and one for David, which with Swinburne and the daily paper that would contain one important matter, namely, the result of the county match between Sussex and Surrey, he took out with him. “There’s a letter for you,” he said, “and there’s Swinburne and the _Daily Telegraph_. What order of merit?” “Oh, _Telegraph_ first,” said David. “I bet you that Surrey—oh, this letter’s from Margery. Might just see what’s going on. I say, I know exactly how a balloon feels. But it was jolly good ginger-beer.” Frank flopped down on the bank by him, and began opening his letter. “What else do you expect,” he said, “if you inflate yourself with gas, as you did at lunch?” “Don’t expect anything else,” said David thickly. “And it was you who suggested it. I think I must see what happened in the match first.” “Well, let’s have a look too, you selfish devil,” said Maddox, putting down his half-opened letter. “Can’t you turn over, and put the paper on the grass here, so that we can read it together?” “Lord, no,” said David. “At least it’d be a risk. But I can sit up if I do it slowly.” Sussex, which had the good fortune to be David’s county, and for which he felt rather responsible, had done him credit on this occasion, and had won by half a dozen wickets. The rest of the paper did not seem to contain anything that mattered, and, throwing it aside, he and Frank began on their letters. Margery’s was quite short, though good of its kind, and, having finished it, David looked up, and saw that Frank was reading his, and that there was trouble in his face. “Oh, I say, is anything wrong?” he asked. Frank did not reply at once. “I’ve heard from Adams,” he said at length. “There’s been a row. Some letter has been found, and Hughes isn’t to be allowed to come back in September.” “Why? What sort of letter?” asked David. Then, as Frank was still silent: “Oh, something beastly, is it?” he asked. “What an ass Hughes is! He was such a nice chap, too, at my other school.” Frank had finished reading, and was looking out over the Surrey garden, biting his lip. “I say, Frank, what’s wrong with you?” said David. Frank gave Adams’s letter to him. “Read it,” he said.