It seemed to him that the character of London was changed or changing. He delighted especially in the young men and women, who walked with a new swagger, almost with freedom, and adorned themselves with gay, bold colors. The young women especially were limber in their movements, marvelously adroit in dodging their hampering garments. Their bodies were freer. They had not the tight, trussed appearance of the young women of his own day and generation. He delighted especially in the young women of London. They gave him hopefulness. He was pleased to see that the young men delighted in them, also. They walked with their arms in the arms of the young women in a fine, warm comradeship, whereas, in his day, and not so long ago neither, the girls had placed a timid little hand in the arms of their swains and been towed along in a sort of condescension. It pleased him to see the young men frankly, and in spite of themselves and their dignity and breeding, give the proper involuntary salute to passing youth and beauty. . . . As he sat in St. James's Park a deliciously pretty girl passed by him, and she repeated nothing of the full homage he paid her, but then came a tall young man, sober and stiff, in silk hat and tail coat. They passed, the young man and the young woman: a lifting of the shoulders in the young man, a tilt of the head in the young woman, a half-smile of pleasure, and they went their ways. The young man approached Old Mole. He gave a little start and up went his hand in the old school salute. Old Mole rose to his feet. "My dear fellow. . . ." It was A. Z. Panoukian. He said: "Well, sir----" They sat down together. Panoukian bore the old expression which had always overcast his face when there were discoverable laches in his conduct, and Old Mole felt himself groping for the mood of jocular severity with which he had been wont to meet that expression. "Well, sir, I never thought----" Old Mole found the formula: "Panoukian, what have you been up to?" "Well, sir, I'm jolly glad to have met you, because I didn't know what you might have heard." "Pray, Panoukian, forget that I was ever your schoolmaster. I am no longer an academic person, though there are distressing traces of my old profession in my outlook." Panoukian had heard the story, and a grin spread across his face. That made things easier. He plumped out a full confession and personal history. He had been a rank failure at Oxford. He had no one but himself to blame, of course. Perhaps he had not given the place a fair trial, but at the end of his fourth term he had decided that it was no use going on, and removed himself. It was partly, he thought, that he could not endure Tibster, and partly that he had lost all power of concentrating on his work.