"And then there's the other reason. That seems to me less honourable, less convincing, but--I can't help it--it's overpowering. Put it like this. Could I possibly put on the scarlet jersey of the Salvation Army and follow the band? _Could_ I? Well, I couldn't. That--that's an insult to--to beauty, a blasphemy against--against--oh, I don't know--against a summer's day, I think. And an evangelical ministry means a red jersey, you know--or something like it. The Mission Hall, for example; the Religious Tract Society.... I say, am I a--a damned fool?" Tressor had taken a little book off the shelves, and was half mechanically turning the leaves. Immature, of course, weak in places, but---- He put it back. "Eh?" he queried, smiling. "A red jersey? No, I rather agree. But the morning's going. Where are you lunching? Have some with me?" "I'd love to," said Paul. "Right. Give me half an hour for these letters. And at luncheon I'll tell you what's come into my head." He smiled, affectionately. "Thanks," said Paul, getting up. Then he remembered his First again, overwhelmingly. "I think I'll just go and see," he said boyishly, "whether there are any telegrams for me." Tressor turned to his desk. "Do," he said. "One o'clock." (2) Paul walked across the Second Court whistling. In the screens he met Strether. "There's only one other first," growled his friend. "Judson. Shows what egregious asses the examiners were." Paul hit him in the ribs. "Where is he?" he demanded. "I must go and congratulate him." "He's in the garden, reading telegrams. I believe there are some for you. It's a sickening sight, but I'll come with you if you like." Paul took his arm and they marched off. "I'm sorry you didn't get one, Gussie," he said. "You deserved it." The other snorted. "Rot," he grunted. "Never stood a look in. Lucky to get a second. But I always thought you'd score."