The last summer-term was a period of tension. Michael found that notwithstanding his vow of idleness the sight of the diligence of the other men in view of Schools impelled him also to labor feverishly. He was angry with himself for his weakness, and indeed tried once or twice to join on the river the careless parties of juniors, but it was no good. The insistent Schools forbade all pleasure, and these leafy days were spent hour after hour of them at his table. Eights Week came round, and though the college went head of the river, for Michael the achievement was merely a stroke of irony. For three years he and his friends, most of whom were now fled, had waited for this moment, had counted upon this bump-supper, had planned a hundred diversions for this happy date. Michael now must attend without the majority of them, and he went in rather a critical frame of mind, for though to be sure Tommy Grainger was drunk in honor of his glorious captaincy, it was not the bump-supper of his dreams. Victory had come too late. Tired of the howling and the horse-play, tired of the fretful fireworks, he turned into Venner’s just before ten o’clock. “Why aren’t you with your friends, making a noise?” asked Venner. “Ought to go home and work,” Michael explained. “But surely you can take one night off. You used always to be well to the fore on these occasions.” “Don’t feel like it, Venner.” “You mustn’t work too hard, you know,” said the old man, blinking kindly at him. “Oh, it’s not work, Venner. It’s age.” “Why, what a thing to say. Hark! They’re having a rare time to-night. I don’t expect the dons’ll say much. They expect a bit of noise after a bump-supper. Why ever don’t you go out and do your share?” Venner was ready to go home, and Michael leaving the little office in his company paused irresolutely in Cloisters for a moment. It was no good. He could not bring himself to be flung into that vortex of ululation. He turned away from its direction and walked with Venner to the lodge. “Don’t forget to mark me down as out of college, Shadbolt,” he warned the porter. “I don’t want to be hauled to-morrow morning for damage done in my absence.” The porter held up his hand in unctuous deprecation. “There is no fear of my making a mistake, Mr. Fane. I was observing your egress, sir,” he said pompously, “and had it registered in my book before you spoke.”