As he stood on the leads and looked down through the grey battlements on the faint fresh green that was brightening the trees in the Botanical Gardens; on the distant spires and towers; and on the less fortunate crowds in the street below; and as the sweet voices of the choir rose and blended through the soft morning air, a feeling, whether it was regret or remorse he hardly knew, came over him. Anyhow he felt that this was a sweeter, purer pleasure than the gambling of last night, and confessed to himself that he had been “an utter fool for his pains.” It was a blazing afternoon about the end of May. The river--meaning thereby the Isis, the main river, to distinguish it from its tributary the Cherwell--was deserted save for a few energetic men in outrigged skiffs practising for sculling races, and the boatmen, in charge of the various college barges, sweltering in the sun, and, as fast as the heat would allow them, making preparations for the work of the evening. The Cherwell, with its slow, shady stream, its winding banks and drooping trees, was the favourite resort, but even here all was quiet. Every now and then a canoe flashed by lazily, or a punt plunged up in search of some cool nook. There was a momentary disturbance, perhaps, as it bumped against one already moored; and pairs of sleepy eyes would look up to scowl at the new-comer, if a stranger; or greet him lazily if a friend. Just in one of the pleasantest corners, Frank and Monkton had fixed their craft, and were lying face upwards on a couple of enormous cushions--Monkton smoking or pretending to smoke; Frank reading or pretending to read. “Are you going to stay for the Eights?” asked Monkton. “Rather,” answered Frank. “Why? aren’t you?” “No, not I! In the first place, I don’t care about them; and in the second place, I’ve promised Morton to drive to Abingdon at seven. It’ll be getting cool then.” “It seems to me you’re rather fond of going to Abingdon,” answered Frank. “What’s the attraction?” “My dear boy, ask no questions and I’ll tell you no lies”--and at that moment a punt ran right into them. “Now then, sir, look ahead!” spluttered Monkton as their punt was nearly upset, and his cigar falling from his mouth burnt a small hole in his flannel trousers. The intruder apologized and plunged on again to disturb the rest of other unlucky beings. “Well,” went on Frank, “I’m glad I’ve not to pay your bill for pony-traps, that’s all.” “Oh, well, as far as that goes,” retorted Monkton, waking up a little, “that don’t trouble me. I patronize the trustful Traces, and I’m sure the trustful one would be quite embarrassed if I offered to pay him; so I don’t. That’s all.” “Does your governor give you an allowance?” asked Frank.