The voice of this distinguished person Checkley knew. But the other voice? That he knew as well. And he could not remember whose voice it was. Very well indeed he remembered the sound of it. Some men never forget a face: some men never forget a shape or figure: some men never forget a voice: some men never forget a handwriting. A voice is the simplest thing, after all, to remember, and the most unchanging. From eighteen till eighty a man's voice changes not, save that in volume it decreases during the last decade: the distinguishing quality of the voice remains the same to the end. 'Have a drink, my dear fellow.' That was the voice of the Pride of Cambridge. 'Thanks. I don't want a drink.' Whose voice was it? Checkley sat up eager for the door to be opened, and that doubt to be resolved. It was opened. The two men came in first, the Cambridge man leading the way. He was a good-looking, smooth-faced man of thirty-two or so, with bright blue eyes--too bright--a fine face, full of delicacy and mobility, a high, narrow forehead, and quick sensitive lips; a man who was obviously in want of some one to take him in hand and control him: one of those men who have no will of their own, and fall naturally before any temptation which assails them. The chief temptation which assailed Freddy Carstone--it seems to stamp the man that his friends all called him Freddy--a Freddy is amiable, weak, beloved, and given to err, slip, fall, and give way--was the temptation to drink. He was really, as the ex-M.P. told his friends, a very fine scholar: he had been a Fellow of his college, but never received any appointment or office of Lecturer there on account of this weakness of his, which was notorious. When his Fellowship expired, he came to London, lived in Gray's Inn, and took pupils. He had the reputation of being an excellent coach if he could be caught sober. He was generally sober in the morning; often a little elevated in the afternoon; and always cheerfully--not stupidly--drunk at night. 'You must have a drink,' Freddy repeated. 'Not want a drink? Hang it, old man, it isn't what you want, it's what you like. If I only took what I wanted, I should be--what should I be? Fellow and Tutor of the college--very likely Master--most probably Archdeacon--certainly Bishop. Wasn't my father a Bishop? Now, if you take what you like, as well as what you want--what happens? You go easily and comfortably down hill--down--down--down--like me. Tobogganing isn't easier: the switchback railway isn't more pleasant. Always take what you like.' 'No--no, Freddy; thanks.'