“I shouldn’t have called it a democracy,” said Alan. “Everybody doesn’t go there.” “But everybody can go there. It depends entirely on themselves.” “What about that fellow Smithers you were talking about?” Alan asked. “He seems barred.” “But he won’t be,” Michael urged hopefully. “He’d be happier at the House all the same,” Alan said. “He’d find his own set there.” “But so he can at St. Mary’s.” “Then it isn’t a democracy,” Alan stoutly maintained. “I say, Alan,” exclaimed Michael, in surprise. “You’re getting quite a logician.” “Well, you always persist in treating me like an idiot,” said Alan. “But I _am_ reading Honor Mods. It’s a swat, but I’ve got to get some sort of a class.” “You’ll probably get a first,” said Michael. Yet how curious it was to think of Alan, whom he still regarded as chiefly a good-looking and capable athlete, taking a first class in a school he himself had indolently passed over. Of course he would never take a first. He was too much occupied with the perfection of new leg-breaks. And what would he do after his degree, his third in greats? A third was the utmost Michael mentally allowed him in the Final Schools. “I suppose you’ll ultimately try for the Indian Civil?” Michael asked. “Do you remember when we used to lie awake talking in bed at Carlington Road? It was always going to be me who did everything intellectual; you were always the sportsman.” “I am still. Michael, I think I’ve got a chance of my blue this year. If I can keep that leg-break,” he added fervidly. “There’s no slow right-hander of much class in the Varsity. I worked like a navvy at that leg-break last vac.” “I thought you were grinding for Mods,” Michael reminded him, with a smile. “I worked like a navvy at Mods,” said Alan. “You’ll be a proconsul, I really believe.” Michael looked admiringly at his friend. “And do you know, Alan, in appearance you’re turning into a regular viking.” “I meant to have my hair cut yesterday,” said Alan, in grave and reflective self-reproof. “It’s not your hair,” cried Michael. “It’s your whole personality. I never appreciated you until this moment.” “I think you talk more rot nowadays than you used to talk even,” said Alan. “So long, I must go back and work.” The tall figure with the dull gold hair curling out from the green cap of Harris tweed faded away in the November fog that was traveling in swift and smoky undulations through the Oxford streets. What a strangely attractive walk Alan had always had, and now it had gained something of determination, whether from leg-breaks or logic Michael did not know. But the result was a truer grace in the poise of his neck; a longer and more supple swing from his tapering flanks.