Between the First Court and the river, under the chestnuts, were a couple of deck-chairs and a rug. Judson in flannels sprawled there, with Hannam, Donaldson and one or two others. Somebody tossed Paul half a dozen orange envelopes. He threw himself down, and tore them open. Mr. Kestern wired that he and Mrs. Kestern were coming up to-morrow. Then an uncle had wired, and a grandfather. Mr. Ernest also. There was one from school, and that intrigued Paul. It was jolly to think that the Head and the rest of them had been expecting the occasion, thinking of it, caring. Pleasant, too, that he had conferred honour on the school. He stared out at the shining river, and saw the old hall, the cut and mutilated forms, the honour boards, the dais, the rows of shuffling schoolboys, and himself amongst them. Announcements were made after prayers. To-morrow, probably, then, the Head would say precisely: "I am sure the school will be glad to learn that Paul Kestern, who went up to St. Mary's, Cambridge, in ... has ..." The school would cheer, sensing a possible half-holiday in connection therewith. Well, he'd look in next month, towards the end of July, and then---- It was really rather pleasant. He reached for the last telegram, speculating idly who had sent it. He could not know that Mr. Kestern had told the news to every possible person in the street as he himself went to the post office. "I'm so glad--Edith," he read. He read it again and again. He glanced up covertly at the others. Then he folded the thin paper, slipped it back in its envelope, stretched himself out at full length and stared up into the blue sky. Fragments of conversation from the men about him drifted in and out of his mind, and now and again he had to respond to a remark addressed point-blank to him. He was still pleasantly aware of achievement and pride that must be hid. But he was wrestling all the while with an enigma. He had seen the girl once only after his visit to Thurloe End, during the brief week-end of the vacation that he had spent at home. They had walked deviously home from Sunday evening service, and he had poured out his heart to her. He had been full of the contrast between Claxted and Thurloe End, as well as the growing impossibility he was experiencing in these occasional returns to service in the evangelical atmosphere. There had been reaction, too, in his outlook after the relief of escape from Father Vassall, and what with one thing and another he had been meditating--he spoke to her as if he were meditating--a return and a surrender. And she had astounded him: she had utterly refrained from suggesting that he should not do so. Indeed she had done more; she had brought to bear upon the problem the mind of, as it were, a Claxted Catholic, though, since nothing had as yet come of it, she had said nothing of her visit to St. Patrick's.