wallpaper, you know."

Peter's eyes had rested contentedly on his own peaceful green walls. He
really hadn't felt in the least like "going in for" anything, either
motor bicycling or examinations.

"I suppose you'll just footle, then," his friend had summed it up, and
left him, because it was half-past six, and they had dinner at that
strange hour. That was why they were able to run it into their tea,
since obviously nothing could be done between, even by Peter's energetic
friend. This friend had little hope for Peter. Of course, he would just
footle; he always had. But one was, nevertheless, rather fond of him.
One would like him to do things, and have a sporting time.

As a matter of fact, Peter gave his friend an agreeable surprise. He went
in, or attempted to go in, for a good many things. He plunged ardently
into football, though he had never been good, and though he always got
extremely tired over it, which was supposed to be bad for him, and
frequently got smashed up, which he knew to be unpleasant for him. This
came to an abrupt end half way through the term. Then he took, quite
suddenly, to motor bicycling. All this is merely to say that the
incalculable factor that sets temperament and natural predilection at
nought had entered into Peter's life. Of course, it was absurd. Urquhart,
being what he was, could successfully do a number of things that Peter,
being what _he_ was, must inevitably come to grief over. But still he
indomitably tried. He even profaned the roads and outraged all æsthetic
fitness in the endeavour, clacking into the country upon a hired
motor-bicycle and making his head ache badly and getting very cold, and
being from time to time thrown off and jumped upon and going about in
bandages, telling enquirers that he supposed he must have knocked against