“Oh—that!” But he was not cynical—or cynical in a very tender way. He was thinking of the irony of friendship—so strong it is, and so fragile. We fly together, like straws in an eddy, to part in the open stream. Nature has no use for us: she has cut her stuff differently. Dutiful sons, loving husbands, responsible fathers—these are what she wants, and if we are friends it must be in our spare time. Abram and Sarai were sorrowful, yet their seed became as sand of the sea, and distracts the politics of Europe at this moment. But a few verses of poetry is all that survives of David and Jonathan. “I wish we were labelled,” said Rickie. He wished that all the confidence and mutual knowledge that is born in such a place as Cambridge could be organized. People went down into the world saying, “We know and like each other; we shan’t forget.” But they did forget, for man is so made that he cannot remember long without a symbol; he wished there was a society, a kind of friendship office, where the marriage of true minds could be registered. “Why labels?” “To know each other again.” “I have taught you pessimism splendidly.” He looked at his watch. “What time?” “Not twelve.” Rickie got up. “Why go?” He stretched out his hand and caught hold of Rickie’s ankle. “I’ve got that Miss Pembroke to lunch—that girl whom you say never’s there.” “Then why go? All this week you have pretended Miss Pembroke awaited you. Wednesday—Miss Pembroke to lunch. Thursday—Miss Pembroke to tea. Now again—and you didn’t even invite her.” “To Cambridge, no. But the Hall man they’re stopping with has so many engagements that she and her friend can often come to me, I’m glad to say. I don’t think I ever told you much, but over two years ago the man she was going to marry was killed at football. She nearly died of grief. This visit to Cambridge is almost the first amusement she has felt up to taking. Oh, they go back tomorrow! Give me breakfast tomorrow.” “All right.” “But I shall see you this evening. I shall be round at your paper on Schopenhauer. Lemme go.” “Don’t go,” he said idly. “It’s much better for you to talk to me.” “Lemme go, Stewart.” “It’s amusing that you’re so feeble. You—simply—can’t—get—away. I wish I wanted to bully you.” Rickie laughed, and suddenly overbalanced into the grass. Ansell, with unusual playfulness, held him prisoner. They lay there for few minutes, talking and ragging aimlessly. Then Rickie seized his opportunity and jerked away.