Blaming myself bitterly for my carelessness, I undressed; and lay tossing, sleepless, till dawn, what with exhaustion, excitement, the dread that prying hypocrite had learned my dear boy’s secret, and—must I admit it?—the memory of Alice Dynevor’s kiss. CHAPTER XXVIII. And here I must make a confession, if I am to put my story honestly upon paper. For the events of that night produced results upon which I cannot look back with satisfaction. True, the position in which they placed me was none of my own seeking, but forced on me by circumstance. Still, I cannot wholly excuse myself of fault. Like most men, I suppose, I possess a fair share of vanity; though, heaven knows, in my case, what with lameness, poverty, and the obscurity of my early lot, vanity had little enough, so far, to feed upon. Perhaps, on this very account, it was all the more greedy of sustenance. My rescue of Alice Dynevor was the nine days’ wonder of the College. I was acclaimed a veritable hero. This affected me but little. Granted the opportunity, a score of men, as I told them, would have done everything I had, and probably done it ten times better. Having risked my life once to save a few hounds, there was no great credit in risking it a second time to save a human being. But the matter did not end there. It would have been better had it done so—for my conscience’ sake, and, I am afraid, for the peace of mind of others. What my kind old friend the Master said to me I shall not repeat. Still less shall I repeat what was said to me by Mrs. Dynevor. Who dare measure the tenderness of a mother’s heart or the generosity of its gratitude? While the Lodge was refitting and rebuilding, the Master removed to a house in Trumpington Street, near the Fitzwilliam Museum, surrounded by large park-like grounds. The three ladies were still his guests; indeed, report declared they had taken up their abode with him permanently. Here I was asked to dinner often, twice a week perhaps; and told, moreover, to consider myself on the footing of an intimate friend, free to come in and out when I liked. And pleasant enough was that permission. Pleasant to a lonely man, such as I, to meet bright smiling faces, to sit and talk, or listen to music, to be petted—mothered almost—by a comely older woman, welcomed and made much of by younger ones. The whole thing was new to me—new as it was flattering and charming. I slipped into something approaching intimacy before I realised what was happening.