"Well, he's the man to help you obviously. And he would too. He's a jolly decent sort is Tressor. I spent a week last vac. at his place. He's got some rippin' stuff."
"Has he?" said Paul, eyeing with astonished awe the man who had stayed with a foremost literary lion and actually dared to criticise him.
"Yes, jolly fine. And it's a lovely old house and grounds, under the South Downs. I read quite a lot there, and we had some toppin' motoring and a little rough shooting. He keeps a good cellar, too, which is something these days. By the way, have you tried the college port?"
"No," said Paul shortly. He wondered if he ought to say that he was a teetotaler for life.
"Well, you should. It's damned good. Have a cigarette."
"I don't smoke," said Paul.
"Wise man," said the other. "By the way, there's a company bringing up The Mikado and The Gondoliers this term, a good crowd, I think. I know a girl in it. Gilbert and Sullivan's stuff's great, I think. Don't you?"
"I'm afraid I haven't seen any," said Paul, who had never been to a theatre in his life. He began to wish he had got out of coming to tea, but he need not have done so, for the other seemed curiously unsurprised.
"Haven't you? Then you've a treat in store for you," he said. And he plunged into gossip in which Paul heard great names bandied about—Ibsen, Bernard Shaw, Galsworthy—almost for the first time in conversation. He said Yes and No at intervals; and if he had no contribution of his own to make, he was at least very obviously interested. Manning was attracted by the boy. He told Tressor, later, that Kestern knew nothing and had been nowhere, but that he had possibilities and was at any rate not consciously a prig. As for Paul, there opened before him a new heaven and a new earth. When he had departed, carrying volumes of the Plays Pleasant and Unpleasant, he found it hard to settle down to his books. In half an hour, he was, indeed, repolishing some verses entitled "The Backs in Autumn" with a view to getting Manning to read a fair copy.
At lunch next day, there came a knock on his door. "Come in," he called, expecting the arrival of Donaldson to fetch him for the river.
The door opened, and a stranger entered. "Kestern?" he said enquiringly, standing in the doorway. "How do you do. I must introduce myself—I'm Hartley of Jesus. Possibly you may know my name as I'm on the Committee of the C.I.C.C.U. I meant to call before, for I heard you were up at St. Mary's and you ought to be a great strength to us."
Paul got eagerly to his feet. "Do come in," he said. "Have you had lunch? Oh well, do have some. It's only a scratch affair, but there's enough to go round." (He burrowed in the cupboard for plates and a knife.) "I'm tubbing early, so I have to hurry. Awfully good of you to call. Of course I've heard of you."
The other took a seat at the table. He had frank keen eyes and paused a second for grace. Paul was suddenly aware that he himself had said none. He pushed the cheese towards his guest and began to cut bread.
"I'm glad you're up here," said Hartley. "We haven't a college secretary in St. Mary's and I hope you'll take it on. Then I've been wondering if you'd help me with something on Sunday. I run a children's service at St. Saviour's schools in the mornings, and I'd be awfully grateful if you'd lend me a hand. The Committee want to put your name down too for the open-airs on Parker's Piece. They hold one there every Sunday night, you know."
Paul smiled warmly. The atmosphere of Claxted had come in with the visitor. "I'll be delighted to help," he said, "but you've outlined a pretty tall programme for the first five minutes."
"Oh no," said Hartley. "You're used to all that kind of thing, I know."
"How did you come to hear of my being up?" queried Paul.
"I was on a Children's Seaside Mission at Eastbourne last August, and met Mr. Ernest. He told me you were coming up. Miss Ernest played for us sometimes. She sang your praises sky-high."
Paul blushed, but it was very pleasant to hear of the home folk this way. They were deep in talk when a clamour of ascending feet sounded on the stairs and Donaldson was heard without shouting breezily: "Kestern! Kestern! Four, you're late! Damn it all, sir" (bursting open the door), "you're late again. Oh—I beg your pardon."
"May I introduce you?" said Paul. "Mr. Hartley of Jesus, Mr. Donaldson of this college."
"How do you do?" said Donaldson, smiling characteristically. "Awfully sorry. Didn't know anyone was here."
"Oh, that's all right," replied Hartley. "I was just going. You are both tubbing, are you? Well, Kestern, Sunday at eleven, eh? Will you give the address?"
"Right," said Paul. "Ten minutes?"
"Yes—not longer. Cheerio. Good luck on the river." And he went out.
"Who's that?" demanded Donaldson. "Pal of yours? He looks a bit of an ass to me."
Paul explained, reaching for his cap and stick.
"Gosh! So you're preaching on Sunday, are you? He won't get me, anyway."
"Don't suppose he'll ask you," said Paul. "Where's Gus Strether?"
"Gussie? Waiting below, I expect. He was ordering tea for three at the kitchens when I came up."
"Well, let's go. We haven't much time if we're walking down together."
The three friends foregathered in the Court, Donaldson chaffing Strether whom he had christened "Gus" by way of a comical allusion to the other's very undandified dress. He himself wore socks and ties that proclaimed themselves, a Norfolk jacket of a light tweed and a fancy waistcoat. As they went, Paul was a little silent. He was wondering whether he liked Donaldson. And if so, why? He was aware that the meeting with Hartley had been significant, that the two would never get on together, that he was proposing to get on with both. It was puzzling. …
By Jesus Bridge they chanced to meet a girl. Donaldson smiled at her, after the manner of his kind, and she smiled back at him after the manner of hers. Strether snorted after a fashion of his own. Donaldson took up his parable.
"I say, Kestern, did you see that? Gus, that girl made eyes at you. Yes, by Jove, she's looking back at you. Oh I say, Gussie, this won't do, my boy! It's those new brogues of yours. I've seen her along here before, and I bet she's on the lookout for you. Here, you aren't tubbing; go and pick her up, and tell us all about it at tea."
Strether snorted again. "Opprobrious conduct," he muttered stormily.
Donaldson roared with laughter and Paul could not help smiling. Strether loved long words, and it was characteristic of him that he made odd noises. He retorted now, fiercely. "Don't bray like an ass," he said. "Do you want all the street to hear you?"
"Gus, you'll be the death of me! Opprobrious conduct! But did you see her ankles—pretty little ankles and a neat little waist. I must say you've got quite good taste."
"Some hussy of a shop-girl," growled the other. "Disgusting, I call it. Why can't you leave females alone?"
Paul chuckled again. "Come on you two," he said. "Let him alone, Donaldson. We've still to change, and it's past two now."
Next day the intrigue so lightly begun developed. Manning had consented to tea with Paul, and Donaldson, who was there, told him the story with certain emendations natural to him. Manning was highly amused. "Write Strether a letter," he suggested, "pretending that it comes from the girl and asking him to meet her on Jesus Bridge some night. Very likely he'll bite out of sheer funk of what she might do if he does not. You can go and watch. He'll walk up and down snorting. It'd be rather a joke."
"By Jove, we will," cried Donaldson. "It'll be no end of a rag. But look here, he knows our handwriting. Will you write it?"
"Yes, if you like. Give me some paper, Kestern."
Paul got up for the materials with some reluctance. "But I like old Strether,"