“Shouldn’t wonder a bit,” said Bags pacifically. “Funny fellow! Don’t strain yourself.” * * * * * Maddox had gone straight back from the bath-room to his study, without filling his kettle. He sat for ten momentous minutes in front of his fire without doing anything, without thinking even, but looking with open eyes, so to speak, on himself. All these weeks that intense friendship which was springing up between himself and David had been splendidly growing, and till now his influence over him had been exerted entirely for David’s good. He had constantly shielded him, as on the night when he had found Hughes sitting on his bed, from all that could sully him, he had checked any hint of foul talk in David’s presence, for, of all his lovable qualities, there was none so nobly potent to the elder boy than David’s white innocence, his utter want of curiosity about all that was filthy. It didn’t exist for him, but the danger of it (though, thank God, it was passed) he knew that he himself had brought near to him. . . . Then he got up and looked at himself in the mirror above his mantel-piece, hating himself. “You damned beast,” he said. “You deserve to be shot.” * * * * * Presently there came a tap at his door, and he remembered that he had told David to bring up a parcel for him. Probably this was not David, for he usually whistled and hardly ever tapped. On his answer Bags entered. “Oh, it’s your parcel, Maddox,” he said. “Blaize forgot to bring it down after we finished playing squash, and so I went back with him and brought it.” Maddox held out his hand for it. “Thanks,” he said. “Did—did Blazes ask you to bring it me?” “Yes, he was having tea in college.” “Has he gone there?” “Yes, we went up together.” Maddox got up. “Right,” he said. “But he’s forgotten to fill my kettle. Would you mind, please?” That was exactly like Maddox. He always thanked fags who did things for him, and treated them politely. Bags, in consequence, retired with pleased alacrity, and returned. “Getting on all right, Crabtree?” asked Maddox. “No troubles?” “Oh no, thanks. I like it all awfully.” “That’s right. I forget who your fag-master is.” “Cruikshank.” “Oh, yes. He’ll look after you. Thanks for filling my kettle.” Bags went delicately and rather proudly away. Cruikshank never thanked him.