forbidden to play) and had it badly set. He mended so badly always. He
was also at the moment right-handed (habitually he used his left) and
that was motor bicycling. He had not particularly distinguished himself
in his work. He was good at nothing except diabolo, and not very good at
that. And he had spent more money than he possessed, having drawn
lavishly on his next year's allowance. He might, in fact, have been
described as an impoverished and discredited wreck. But for such a one
he had looked very cheerful, till Hilary had said that about going down.
That was really depressing.

Peter, as the egg boiled, looked back rather wistfully over his year.
It seemed a very long time ago since he had come up. His had been an
undistinguished arrival; he had not come as a sandwich man between two
signboards that labelled his past career and explained his path that was
to be; he had been unaddressed to any destination. The only remark on his
vague and undistinguished label had perhaps been of the nature of
"Brittle. This side up with care." He had no fame at any game; he did not
row; he was neither a sporting nor, in any marked degree, a reading man.
He did a little work, but he was not very fond of it or very good. The
only things one could say of him were that he seemed to have an immense
faculty of enjoyment and a considerable number of friends, who knew him
as Margery and ate muffins and chocolates between tea and dinner in his
rooms.

He had been asked at the outset by one of these friends what sort of
things he meant to "go in for." He had said that he didn't exactly know.
"Must one go in for anything, except exams?" The friend, who was
vigorously inclined, had said that one certainly ought. One could--he had
measured Peter's frail physique and remembered all the things he couldn't
do--play golf. Peter had thought that one really couldn't; it was such a