“I don’t know the name,” said Martin dubiously. “Never heard of the family. He was wearing an Oriel tie.” “Oriel. . . . Do you mean Oxford?” “Yes, one of my cousins was there. That’s how I know it. I should think they turfed him out on account of that waistcoat. Still, Oxford isn’t what it used to be.” “In the eyes of a Southern Unionist,” he might have added. But the news was grateful to Edwin. “I shouldn’t wonder,” Martin went on, “if lots of decent people didn’t end by coming to schools like this. I expect it is the Dean’s idea, you know. I say, what about lunch? Do you know of any decent place?” In ancient days, when he had come into North Bromwich shopping with his mother, Edwin had always been taken to Battie’s, the great confectioner’s in Queen Street, but now, passing the doors in this exalted company, he felt that the company of a crowd of shabby shopping women would hardly be suitable: besides, he might even run the risk of meeting his Aunt Laura, who also frequented the shop, so he left Battie’s prudently alone. “I know one place,” said Martin. “I should think it’s all right. The food’s decent anyway.” He led the way up a side street to an elegant resort frequented by the professional classes of North Bromwich, where them was a long counter set out with sandwiches like a buffet at a dance, and all the customers seemed at home. In the ordinary way Edwin would not have dared to enter it, but Martin, with the elegant confidence of Southern Unionism, showed him the way, and seated at a marble-topped table they trifled with Plover on toast. Martin, of course, did the choosing, and in his dealings with the tiny carcass showed a familiarity with the correct method of consuming small birds that Edwin was pleased to learn. “Ever shoot plover?” he said. No . . . Edwin had never shot anything: he didn’t particularly want to shoot anything; but he realised that it was a great accomplishment to be able to talk about it as though he had never done anything else. “I’ll pay,” said Martin. “We can square up afterwards.” They did so and, thawed by the process of feeding, began to talk more easily. “Are you digging in this place?” Martin asked. Edwin told him that he lived in the country. “In the country? I didn’t know there was any here. Have you any decent shooting?” “Unfortunately, no.” He remembered, however, the solitary trout under the bridge below the abbey. “There’s fishing of sorts,” he said. “What sorts?” “Oh, trout—” “Brown trout? There’s not much fun in that. White trout . . . sea trout you call them in England . . . are good sport. Still, we’ll have a day together next spring. I’ll get my rods over.” The subject was dangerous, and so Edwin asked him where he was living: “With your cousin, I suppose.”