“He’s trying to like people.” “Then he’s done for,” said Widdrington. “He’s dead.” “He’s trying to like Hornblower.” The others gave shrill agonized cries. “He wants to bind the college together. He wants to link us to the beefy set.” “I do like Hornblower,” he protested. “I don’t try.” “And Hornblower tries to like you.” “That part doesn’t matter.” “But he does try to like you. He tries not to despise you. It is altogether a most public-spirited affair.” “Tilliard started them,” said Widdrington. “Tilliard thinks it such a pity the college should be split into sets.” “Oh, Tilliard!” said Ansell, with much irritation. “But what can you expect from a person who’s eternally beautiful? The other night we had been discussing a long time, and suddenly the light was turned on. Every one else looked a sight, as they ought. But there was Tilliard, sitting neatly on a little chair, like an undersized god, with not a curl crooked. I should say he will get into the Foreign Office.” “Why are most of us so ugly?” laughed Rickie. “It’s merely a sign of our salvation—merely another sign that the college is split.” “The college isn’t split,” cried Rickie, who got excited on this subject with unfailing regularity. “The college is, and has been, and always will be, one. What you call the beefy set aren’t a set at all. They’re just the rowing people, and naturally they chiefly see each other; but they’re always nice to me or to any one. Of course, they think us rather asses, but it’s quite in a pleasant way.” “That’s my whole objection,” said Ansell. “What right have they to think us asses in a pleasant way? Why don’t they hate us? What right has Hornblower to smack me on the back when I’ve been rude to him?” “Well, what right have you to be rude to him?” “Because I hate him. You think it is so splendid to hate no one. I tell you it is a crime. You want to love every one equally, and that’s worse than impossible—it’s wrong. When you denounce sets, you’re really trying to destroy friendship.” “I maintain,” said Rickie—it was a verb he clung to, in the hope that it would lend stability to what followed—“I maintain that one can like many more people than one supposes.” “And I maintain that you hate many more people than you pretend.” “I hate no one,” he exclaimed with extraordinary vehemence, and the dell re-echoed that it hated no one. “We are obliged to believe you,” said Widdrington, smiling a little; “but we are sorry about it.” “Not even your father?” asked Ansell. Rickie was silent. “Not even your father?” The cloud above extended a great promontory across the sun. It only lay there for a moment, yet that was enough to summon the lurking coldness from the earth. “Does he hate his father?” said Widdrington, who had not known. “Oh, good!” “But his father’s dead. He will say it doesn’t count.” “Still, it’s something. Do you hate yours?” Ansell did not reply. Rickie said: “I say, I wonder whether one ought to talk like this?”