"It boils," he told Peter, of the egg.

Peter took it off and fished it out with a spoon, and began rummaging for
an egg-cup and salt and marmalade and buns in the locker beneath his
window seat. Having found these things, he composed himself in the fat
arm-chair to dine, with a sigh of satisfaction.

"You slacker," Urquhart observed. "Well, can you come to-morrow? The drag
starts at eleven."

"It's quite hard," said Peter, unreasonably disappointed in it. "Oh, yes,
rather; I'll come." How short the time for doing things had suddenly
become.

Urquhart remarked, looking at the carpet, "What a revolting mess. Why?"

"My self-filling bath," Peter explained. "I invented it myself. Well--it
did fill itself. Quite suddenly and all at once, you know. It was a very
beautiful sight. But rather unrestrained at present. I must improve
it.... Oh, this is my last term."

"Sent down?" Urquhart sympathetically enquired. It was what one might
expect to happen to Peter.

"Destitute," Peter told him. "The Robinsons have it practically all.
Hilary told me to-day. I am thrown on the world. I shall have to work.
Hilary is destitute too, and Peggy has nothing to spend, and the babies
insist on bathing in the canals. Bad luck for us, isn't it. Oh, and
Hilary is going to edit a magazine called 'The Gem,' for your uncle in