But it was even worse when he came back to find his study full of seven indignant sportsmen wanting to know why on earth he had taken to going out for walks with “a dirty tick in Morgan’s, who was no use at anything and didn’t even wash.”
“He’s quite a decent chap,” said Roland weakly. “I met him in the san.”
“I dare say you did,” said Anderson; “we’re not blaming you for that. You couldn’t help it. But those sorts of things, one does try to live down.”
For days he was ragged about it, so much so that he hadn’t the face to say he had been going out with a girl. Such a statement should be a proud acknowledgment, not a confession. If ever he said he couldn’t go anywhere, or do something, the invariable retort was, “I suppose you’re going out for a walk with Howard.”
The School house was exclusive; it was insular; it was prepared to allow the possibility of its members having friends in the outhouses; there were good men in the outhouses, even in Morgan’s. But one had to be particular, and when it came to Whately, a man of whom the house was proud, deserting his friends for a greasy swine in Morgan’s who didn’t wash, well, the least one could do was to make the man realize that he had gone a little far.
It was a bad business, altogether a bad business, and Roland very much doubted whether the hour and a half he spent with Dolly was an adequate recompense. She was a nice girl, quite a nice girl, and they found themselves on kissing terms quickly enough. There were no signs of their getting any further, and, as a matter of fact, if there had been, Roland would have been extremely alarmed. He objected to awkward situations and intense emotions: he preferred to keep his life within the decent borders of routine. He wanted adventure certainly, but adventure bounded by the limits of the society in which he lived. He liked to feel that his day was tabulated and arranged; he hated that lost feeling of being unprepared; he liked to know exactly what he had to say to Dolly before he could hold her hand and exactly what he had to say before she would let him kiss her. It was a game that had to be rehearsed before one got it right; no actor enjoys his part before he has learned his words; when he had learned the rules it was great fun; kisses were pleasant things. He wrote a letter to his friend, Ralph Richmond, acquainting him of this fact.
My Dear Ralph,—Why haven’t you written to me, you lazy swine? I suppose you will say that you’re awfully hard worked, getting ready for Smalls. But I don’t believe it. I know how much I do myself.
It’s been quite a decent term. I got my colors and shall be captain of the house after the summer if the people I think are going to leave do leave. Think of me as a ruler of men. I’m having a pretty good slack in form and don’t have to do any work, except in French, where a fellow called Carus Evans, an awful swine, has his knife into me and puts me on whenever we get to a hard bit. However, as I never do much else I’m able to swot the French all right.
The great bit of news, though, is that I’ve met a girl in the town who I go out for walks with. I’m not really keen on her, and I think I prefer her friend, Betty (we go in couples). Betty’s much older and she’s dark and she makes you blush when she looks at you. Still, Dolly’s very jolly, and we go out for walks every Sunday and have great times. She lets me kiss her as much as I like. Now what do you think of it? Write and tell me at once. Yours ever,
Roland.