"Game up?" said Sturtevant. These men were never excited. "Exactly. When shall you be up?" "I shall be in my chambers, 6, Middle Temple Lane, in three weeks' time, ready for a campaign in Fleet Street; we'll work together." "Right you are; but aren't you afraid of my queering your pitch?" "I'll take the risk of that. When do you go?" "Five-thirty train." "Shall we come to the station?" said Condamine. "No, don't, the 'good' set will be there, and as I hope to carry off most of their spare cash, I think it would be wiser to depart in the odour of sanctity, and you'd rather spoil it." "Right oh!" said the president, using one of his favourite phrases, and then raising his glass to his lips, "The old toast?" "The old toast," said Condamine, "the three consonants"; and they drank it and said good-bye. These three men were bound together by many an orgie, many a shady intrigue and modest swindle; they had no illusions about each other, but now they all felt a keen pang of regret that their little society was to be broken up. Gobion went out feeling sorry, but he had too much to do to indulge in sentiment. He hoped to turn his twenty pounds into forty before lunch. As he went into the High, bells were ringing, tutors hurrying along, and men going to lectures in cap and gown. A group of men in "Newmarkets" came round the corner of King Edward Street, going to hunt, and nearly knocked down Professor Max Müller, who was carrying a brown paper parcel and walking very fast. The Jap shop-girl in a new hat passed with a smile, and a Christchurch man and rowing blue came out of the "Mitre," where, no doubt, he had been looking over the morning paper, and gleaning information about his own state of health. The scene was bright and animated, and the winter's sun cast a glamour over everything. Nearly every other man stopped and spoke to Gobion, and he felt strangely moved to think that he would soon be out of it all and forgotten. He turned into the stable-yard of the "Bell," and stood there for a moment irresolutely, frowning, and then with a quick movement went into the private bar. It was quite empty of customers, and a girl sat before the fire with her feet on the fender reading a novel. She jumped up when Gobion came in, and he put his arm round her waist and kissed her. She was a pretty, fresh-looking girl, and would have been prettier still if she had not so obviously darkened her eyelashes with a burnt hairpin. Gobion sat down on the chair, and pulled her on to his knee, smiling at her, and puffing rings of cigarette smoke at her. She settled herself comfortably, leaning back in his arms, and began to rattle away in a rather high-pitched voice about a raid of the proctors the night before. As is the habit of the more "swagger" sort of barmaid, she used the word "awfully" (with the accent on the _aw_) once or twice in nearly every sentence, and it was curious to hear how glibly the Varsity slang and contractions slipped from her.