"No, I don't quite think that; he comes of a good family, but they won't have anything to do with him, and for the last term or two he has been living on his wits. He's nearly done now, though. I should think he'd drop out after this term." "I never knew how far to believe the man. I suppose he does write a good deal?" "Yes, that's quite true. I've seen his things in _The Book Review_ and in _The Pilgrim_. I imagine too he makes a good deal out of the Church party." "What on earth do you mean?" "Why, he acts a fit of remorse and horror at the life he is leading, goes to Father Gray to confession, and then borrows ten pounds to start a new life." Sturtevant laughed an evil little snigger and poured out some more whiskey. They had blown out the lamp as the oil was low, and the room was only lighted by the dull glow of the dying fire. The air was heavy with cigarette smoke and the smell of spirits, and both men felt bored and sleepy. Condamine was afraid a fit of depression was approaching, so he raised himself in his chair, and began to drive away his thoughts by telling Sturtevant risky stories. They were far too clever to really care much for cheap nastiness, but both felt it a relief from the state of nervous tension that a long day's continuous drinking had induced. "One touch of indecency makes the whole world grin, to paraphrase the immortal bard," he said, and they both laughed and sighed. Suddenly a man in the rooms above who had a piano began to play the Venusberg music from _Tannhäuser_ very quietly. Almost simultaneously with the beginning of the music the moon, like a piece of carved silver floating through the winter sky, attended by a little drift of fluffy amber and sulphur-coloured clouds, swung round from behind New College tower, sending a broad band of green light across the room. Sturtevant's white face was thrown into sharp relief against the shadow. Condamine sat quite still, shivering a little. He felt cold. The strange music tinkled on, like the overture to some strange experience, sounding almost unearthly to those two unhappy souls in the room below. Sturtevant's face twitched. His nerves were all wrong, and he was subject to small facial contortions. The moon moved farther away from the tower, and, peeping over a gargoyle, shone still more directly into the room. On the wall opposite the window was a picture of the Dutch realistic school, a heavy hairless face, fat, with a look of vacuous excitement. Condamine stared fixedly at it. Suddenly the music stopped, and the man above shut the piano with a bang that jarred among the strings. Condamine jumped up with a curse, looking as if he had been asleep. Then he yawned, and taking his cap and gown, without speaking left the room. It was then upon nine o'clock, and he went to the Union and fought depression by firing off epigrams to a crowd of men in the smoking-room with the assured air of a man of vogue.