The friendship with Widdup notably ripened. They were both members of the same branch of the Natural History Society, the one that was labelled astronomical. The subject was unpopular, for its pursuit was nocturnal and made no exciting appeal to the hunting instinct of boys. The section met every fortnight in the room of one of the mathematical masters. And since they met at night, they managed to escape second Prep. Their president, Mr. Heal, was a rather melancholy performer on the flute, and Edwin, generally contriving to turn up some minutes before the meeting began, would stand at the door listening to the innocent gentleman playing to himself unaccompanied folk-tunes that he had collected in the holidays. At the first sound of a door-knock Heal would unscrew his flute and pack it into a case lined with puce-coloured plush; but it seemed as though an afterglow of tenderness still lingered on his unusually dull features. As for astronomy, they never got much farther than the mere names of constellations and their figures, although Widdup often asked questions which almost tapped the mathematical master’s subject. These adventures were discouraged, for Mr. Heal had grown to hate mathematics. But they did learn to find their way about the paths of the sky, and often, on frosty winter evenings, when the clear vault above the downs was like jet, Edwin and Widdup would walk up and down the Quad and imagine that they could feel the heave of the spinning world, while they watched Capella scale the dome of sky. And once, when he had come to the master’s room a little early on the night of the section meeting, Mr. Heal cleared his throat and, taking Edwin by the ear, began to read from an olive-green book that he held in his hand. He read atrociously. “How do you like this?” he said. “H’m?” He said “H’m” with a little snarl in it. “The Dog Star and Aldebaran, pointing to the restless Pleiades, were half up the southern sky, and between them hung Orion, which gorgeous constellation never burnt more vividly than now, as it swung itself forth above the rim of the landscape; Castor and Pollux with their quiet shine were almost on the meridian: the barren and gloomy square of Pegasus was creeping round to the North-West; far away through the plantation Vega sparkled like a lamp suspended amid the leafless trees, and Cassiopeia’s chair stood daintily poised in the uppermost boughs.” Edwin thought it was “fine.” “Better than the _Story of the Heavens_?” asked Mr. Heal. “Come, come, Ingleby . . . surely not?” “Rather, sir,” said Edwin.