a few idle punts and canoes went to and fro. Here—too—were Tennyson's immemorial elms, and Tennyson's black bat night descending. Clare Bridge with its stone balls was a ghost bridge upon the pale silver of the water King's Chapel made its presence felt, like an obtruding cliff.
"Are those chaps in the boats undergraduates, pater?"
"I suppose so," said Sorrell.
He felt himself to be very raw, but his feeling of rawness was soothed by the thought that Christopher was coming here, and that there was nothing that Christopher need be ashamed of.
"Taking it easy—those fellows."
"And why not?" asked his father.
"I thought one read in the evening."
Sorrell pinched Kit's arm.
"All work and no play"
"Supposing your work's your play, pater?"
"Some day. I want you to row or play footer. And Ox?"
Sorrell smiled to himself. He had talked a good deal to Porteous, and Porteous, never having been an academic person,—had kept alive the memory of his vivid youth. Disgraceful "rags," and most unparsonic adventures! Your tailor might be of more importance than your tutor. And to be a first-boat man, cycling along the towing-path and shouting at the Lent crew you had been training. "Keep it long,—keep—it—long. Damn you,—five,—you're late." It was necessary to be neither a funk nor a sugarer, and to be able to wear the particular sort of suit and tie and waistcoat that gave you the proper atmosphere. Kit should have the proper atmosphere, a good tailor, good digs, the privilege of giving an occasional dinner, enough pocket-money to make life easy in the company of idle young men. Not that they were idlers in the conventional sense.
"Playing hard is just as good as working hard. I'd like you to box against Oxford, like Porteous did."
"All right, pater; I'll have a shot at it. You see, I think I know what I want to do."
They strolled back by way of Queen's, Kit's arm linked in his father's.
