"I never have," said Burning, very solemnly, "and I never will. I've always had somebody to make a hero of. I would love to die for you, I would really. It's the only sort of thing that I can do, because I'm not clever. I know you think me very stupid." "Yes, I do," said Olva, "and you mustn't talk like a schoolgirl. If we're friends and I let you come in here, you mustn't let your vest come over your cuffs and you must take those spots off your waistcoat, and brush your hair and clean your nails, and you must just be sensible and have a little humour. Why don't you play football?" "I can't play games, I'm very shortsighted." "Well, you must take some sort of exercise. Run round Parker's Piece or something, or go and run at Fenner's. You'll get so fat." "I _am_ getting fat. I don't think it matters much what I look like." "It matters what every one looks like. And now you'd better cut. I've got to go out and see a man." Burning submissively rose. He said no more but bundled out of the door in his usual untidy fashion. Olva came after him and banged his "oak" behind him. In Outer Court, looking now so vast and solemn in the silence of its snow, Bunning, stopping, pointed to the grey buildings that towered over them. "It was against a wall like that that I used to imagine God--on a night like this--you'll think that very silly." He hurriedly added, "There's Marshall coming. I know he'll be at me about those Christian Union Cards. Good-night." He vanished. But it was not Marshall. It was Rupert Craven. The boy was walking hurriedly, his eyes on the ground. He was suddenly conscious of some one and looked up. The change in him was extraordinary. His eyes had the heavy, dazed look of one who has not slept for weeks. His face was a yellow white, his hair unbrushed, and his mouth moved restlessly. He started when he saw Olva. "Hallo, Craven. You're looking seedy. What's the matter?" "Nothing, thanks. . . . Good-night." "No, but wait a minute. Come up to my rooms and have some coffee. I haven't seen you for days." A fortnight ago Craven would have accepted with joy. Now he shook his head. "No, thanks. I'm tired: I haven't been sleeping very well." "Why's that? Overwork?" "No, it's nothing. I don't know why it is." "You ought to see somebody. I know what not sleeping means." "Why? . . . Are _you_ sleeping badly?" Craven's eyes met Olva's. "No, I'm splendid, thanks. But I had a bout of insomnia years ago. I shan't forget it." "You _look_ all right." Cravan's eyes were busily searching Olva's face. Then suddenly they dropped. "I'm all right," he said hurriedly. "Tired, that's all." "Why do you never come and see me now?" "Oh, I will come--sometime. I'm busy." "What about?" Olva stood, a stern dark figure, against the snow. "Oh, just busy." Craven suddenly looked up as though he were going to ask Olva a question. Then he apparently changed his mind, muttered a good-night and disappeared round the corner of the building.