"Easily enough. Wait till he's out. Come to brekker to-morrow, and arrange a plan of campaign." "What time?" "Any time you like. Say nine. There's no chapel and no lekkers yet. Will that do?" "Right-o," said Paul. "Good-night." "Good-night. Doesn't matter if you're a bit late." In his room, Paul lit a candle. Then he climbed into one of his window-seats and stared out at the moonlit, slow-moving river, the bare chestnuts, the empty street. "How too lovely," he whispered to himself again, and sat long ere he got down to go to his little bedroom. As he did so, the flickering candlelight showed him his multi-coloured text with its white background. The words stared at him silently, and he repeated them to himself with something already of the air of a stranger. (2) Paul acclimatised with astonishing rapidity. Within a fortnight his "square" was gloriously "bashed," no one thundered more boisterously up and down the stairs, and few strolled into Hall with more nonchalance. He tubbed daily and promisingly. He was poor, but he was learning to make his own porridge and fry his own breakfast eggs and bacon without an apology to Mrs. Rover. Donaldson and Strether (in brogues now) had taken to foregathering in his rooms as a regular thing. He was known at large to be "pi," but among the freshers he was shaping for a place which would discount that to some extent. A few literary men of his own year had already heard some of his verses and read a short story or two, and the three friends had begun to conceive of "The Literary Lounge," a free and easy club which was to gather from time to time for the encouragement of amateur talent. Cambridge was moulding him far more speedily than even Edith had expected.