It would crop up quite early in the term, he knew. And his father had promised him an extra five bob for it. Five bob! _Well_ ... but he was Head of the School. And, in a matter like this, to be mean! If it were anything less solemn and patriotic and all that. He had known, personally, Roger Groves, and Latimer Major, and Brown, and Corbett--all among the Fallen. His would be the first name on the list. He ought to set an example of two quid, at least. The Guv’nor didn’t see it. He disapproved on principle of memorials when they took the shape of gym-halls and playgrounds and free libraries ... said that the Fallen would prefer the funds to be spent on providing employment for their discharged comrades. Hal allowed some sense in this, but he doubted if old Latimer were of the kind to worry much either way, wherever he was. But he would have understood, fast enough, that Hal, the first of Winborough’s athletic divinities, setting down his subscription prominently at the top of the list, could not put forth his Guv’nor’s principles as an excuse for shabbiness. Five shillings. Add fifteen from his own pocket-money--and more than this would absolutely cripple him for the term--and still he was a pound short of what he wanted to give. Hal went into the Bank with Aunt Lavvy’s cheque. Banks are impersonal things; the money that pours out from them is unlimited. It does not belong to the clerk, nor even to the branch manager. So that, when he came out, and discovered, carelessly counting the notes before thrusting them into his pocket, that he had one pound more in hand then he had to pass over to Aunt Lavvy, he could not, in his swift exultation, visualize any destination for the note except the Memorial. His imagination, already more exuberantly goat-footed than normal, that morning, had had no time to subside, before this overwhelmingly magical response came to his wish that the blemish might be neatly removed from the radiance of all his tomorrows. His flood of relieved gratitude was as simple as that of some boy of ancient Greece who recognizes, by a gift dropped to his feet from Olympus, that he is indeed beloved of the gods. Could God really work miracles in this altogether decent fashion, prompt, without excess, and without fuss? Hal didn’t call it God--he felt, dimly, that this would be “swank.” But acknowledging that “luck” had with intention singled him out, he called it luck with a shy reverence that confessed a salute to the Deity behind it. The lapse had occurred then. An uncanny moral lapse--but not a guilty one. The guilt was later, when, his spirit snubbed by the fact that the pound had not materialized out of nowhere to make him happy, he had not once rapped out: “Here you are, Aunt Lavvy, the chap made a mistake, and handed me out six of ’em....”