"I try," said Peter, "to look as if I didn't care whether I had them or
not. Then they let me have them for very little. The man I got that
tapestry from didn't know how nice it was. I did, but I cheated him."

"Well," Hilary said, passing his hand wearily over his forehead, "I must
go to your detestable station and catch my train.... I've got a horrible
headache. The strain of all this is frightful."

He looked as if it was. His pale face, nervous and strained, stabbed at
Peter's affection for him. Peter's affection for Hilary had always been
and always would be an unreasoning, loyal, unspoilably tender thing.

He went to the station to help Hilary to catch his train. The enterprise
was a failure; it was not a job at which either Margerison was good. They
had to wait in the detestable station for another. The annoyance of that
(it is really an abnormally depressing station) worked on Hilary's
nervous system to such an extent that he might have flung himself on the
line and so found peace from the disappointments of life, had not Peter
been at hand to cheer him up. There were certainly points about young
Peter as a companion for the desperate.

Peter, having missed hall, as well as Hilary's train, went back to his
room and put an egg on to boil. He lay back in his most comfortable chair
to watch it; he needed comfort rather. He was going down. It had been so
jolly--and it was over.

He had not got much to show for the good time he had had. Physically, he
was more of a wreck than he had been when he came up. He was slightly
lame in one leg, having broken it at football (before he had been