Arm in arm, father and son went out to do some shopping. Paul, used to hard economy, was highly pleased with his father's generosity. Crockery marked with the arms of St. Mary's was an unexpected joy; two arm-chairs, and only one of them second-hand; a few groceries, cakes and biscuits; two framed prints of Landseer's dogs, to brighten things up, as his father said; even a toasting-fork, a lamp, a side-table, a tablecloth--all these, and a hearthrug, and the room seemed furnished. He unpacked a box, and graced his mantel-shelf with photographs, a presentation clock from the children of the Mission Hall, and a couple of ancient candlesticks, in the form of metal storks upholding hollowed bulrushes, from his bedroom at home. Then it was time for his father to return, and the boy saw him to the station. Paul wandered back in the dusk: his hands in his pockets turning a final gift of a new sovereign, his mind on fire. He peered curiously in at the gateways of unknown colleges, examined the gay shops, lingered over the bookcases of the numerous booksellers. A bell was ringing in St. Lawrence's steeple as he passed, and he stepped for a minute into the church. It was a dark gloomy place, but a couple of lighted candles on the altar showed him a crucifix and six more tall lights behind. He came out quickly, conscious of a little flush of anger. People of that sort were betraying the Faith. He mounted the two flights of wooden stairs light-heartedly however, and entered his own room. Mrs. Rover had kindled a fire, and its ruddy glow welcomed him. Then he saw that there was a man standing by the fireplace. He paused, a little bewildered. "Oh, I say," said the other breezily, "I'm glad you've come in. I thought I'd wait a few minutes. There's nobody up yet you know, except a few of us freshers. I heard about you from the Dean, and I thought I'd call at once. My name's Donaldson. You're going to be a parson, aren't you? And so am I. How do you do?" He held out his hand. Paul warmed to the cheery greeting. "Topping of you to call," he said. "My name's Kestern." Then he remembered it was on the door, and he felt a fool. "Yes. Are you busy? My things haven't all come yet, and your room's a damned sight more cheerful than mine." "Do sit down," said Paul. "Take the new armchair. You're the first person to sit in it." "They call 'em pews here," rejoined the other, sinking into the seat. He had a pipe in his hand, which he lit. "You smoke?" he queried. "No," said Paul. "Well, I do. Always have. I can't read without it. I mean to row if I can, and I don't know how I'll get on when we train. What are you going to do?" "I'm not sure," said Paul cautiously, not sure either what the other really meant. "Well, row then. The boat captain's up already. I saw him after lunch. I'll tell him you want to tub, shall I? It'll be sporting if we get in a boat together." "Yes," said Paul, kindling at the proffered friendship.