OF course he got his thrashing in return; but, in the end, he found himself the gainer by that unthinkable outburst. The incident had been noted, and there were those who relished the blow to Griffin’s prestige, a blow which no recriminatory lickings could efface. Edwin assured himself that he had that day lighted such a candle in England as should never be put out. It seemed, indeed, as though the affair had revealed to some of his own classmates that intellectual superiority which they had overlooked before; and, in particular, it made the basis of a friendship between himself and one of his rivals, a boy named Widdup, who combined with a head for mathematics—Edwin’s blank despair—a certain proficiency in games. Widdup disliked Griffin. “Great beefy beast,” he said. “If they’d make him play footer and sweat some of the fat off him he’d have been a bit quicker on you. He wasn’t half waxy about it. He hates being laughed at. . . .” And so, as the terms slipped by, St. Luke’s ceased to be a purgatory. Edwin contracted certain timid friendships—as this with Widdup—and adored a series of perfectly ordinary prefects. He shook down into his proper place in the scheme of things, and after that nobody took much notice of him. Even the Griffin-Douglas coalition, who never forgave, troubled him very little. Certain outbursts of persecution he took as a matter of course; such was the teaching of history; but the ways of these two were now widely divergent from those in which he trod. The dormitory was the only place in which they inevitably met, for he had managed to move his seat in Hall some way from that of Griffin; and in chapel, the only other place they had in common, he was safe.