Peter was racked with headache, and sick with a sense of futility. "Shut up, you fools," he growled at them. "Peter is ungrateful after all we have done for him; but we know what Peter would like to do with these pretty things. He would like to wrap them up in a parcel, and send them to St. James' Palace. Won't the Lord Chamberlain be surprised? We will enclose a schedule--List of Garments Discarded by Principal Lady under the Aegis of the Lord Chamberlain at the Oxford Theatre on the Fourteenth Instant." "There cannot be a schedule," said another wag. "How are we to name these pretty things?" "Our definitions will be arbitrary. Here, for instance, is a charming trifle, fragrant as flowers in April. Mark it down as 'A Transparency--Precise Function Unknown.'" "Camisole," suggested a voice. "Will the expert kindly come forward?" It seemed hours before Peter, after much perfunctory ribaldry, was left alone with his remorse. The little heap of white garments accused him from the table of rowdiness and vulgarity. They filled his room with the scent of violets, and he remembered now the eyes of the woman he had so rudely frightened. In the immediate future he saw the red tape of being formally sent down--a grave reprimand from the authorities, twinkling amusement from the Warden. They would treat him like a child. Had he not behaved like a child? All his fine passion had turned to ridicule. Peter, solitary in his room, found comfort in one thought alone. The world was waiting for him in London, where he would be received as a man, and be understood--where passion and a keen mind could be turned to high ends and worthily expended. He accused authority of his excesses, and dedicated himself afresh to resist and discredit his rulers. He was now a responsible revolutionary, with a hard world in front of him to be accused and beaten down. He thought again of his father--now a bright legend of intellectual revolt. Next day Peter listened quietly to all that was said to him, receiving as of course an intimation that he was finally expelled from the College. This time the funeral was spared. Peter's friends were too busy packing for the vacation. His last farewell was spoken on the platform of Oxford station. Marbury, returning for a night to college, hailed him as he jumped from the cab. "Hullo, Peter," he said at once. "You're a famous man!" "Don't rot." "Have you seen the local paper?" "Why?" "There are some rather good headlines," answered Marbury, unfolding the sheet. RAID UPON THE OXFORD THEATRE SUDDEN UPROAR DESTRUCTION OF STAGE PROPERTIES PRINCIPAL LADY PROSTRATED WITH SHOCK He finished reading, and handed the paper to Peter. "What on earth have you been doing?" he asked, as Peter seized and devoured it. Peter ran his eye over the lines. Reported in the common form of a local scribe it read like a drunken brawl. "Were you tight?" asked Marbury briefly.