quaintly wry and homely face, he hid his shyness and his
brilliancy behind a brusque manner. Ostensibly cynical and a
witty satirist of his more sentimental fellows, his desk was full
of charming ballades and _pieces d'amour_, scratched off at white
heat in odd moments. His infinite fund of full-flavoured jest had
won him the nickname of Priapus. But beneath the uncouth exterior
of the man, behind his careless dress and humorously assumed
coarseness, lay the soul of a poet--sensitive as a girl, and
devout before the whisperings of Beauty.

Stephen Carter and Randall King were first to arrive, and seized
the ends of the fireside couch while Forbes poured their coffee.

"A Clark Russell of an evening!" said Carter, stretching his
golfing brogues to the blaze. "Don't you love a good drenching,
downpouring night? I do!" He was a burly full-blooded blond,
extravagantly facetious in convivial moments, and a mournful
brooder in solitude. King, better known as "The Goblin," was a
dark, whimsical elf in thick spectacles, much loved in the
'varsity dramatic society for his brilliant impersonations. The
Goblin said nothing as he sipped his coffee and gazed at the
fire.

"There you go again, Falstaff!" exclaimed Forbes to Carter, as he
unlocked a corner cupboard and drew out a bottle of port. "The
universal enthusiast! I believe you'll be enthusiastic about the
examiners that plough you!"

"What, Falstaff get ploughed?" said a vast and rather handsome
newcomer, flinging open the door without knocking. "I think he's