As Gordon walked into the cool air he ran into Ferrers.
"Good-bye, sir."
"You are off, are you? Well, good luck. Write to me in the hols; I'll look you up if I'm in town. If not, cheer-o!"
He was gone in a second.
"'So some time token the last of all our evenings
Crowneth memorially the last of all our days ...'"
Gordon murmured to himself as he walked slowly down to the dining hall....
The next morning there was the inevitable bustle, the tipping of the servants, the good-byes, the promises to write at least twice during the holidays, the promises which were never kept.
"Here, Bamford, I say," shouted Gordon, "take my bag down to the station."
Bamford looked almost surly at being told to do anything on that last day. "Authority forgets a dying king," thought Gordon. His power could not have been so great if it began to wane almost before he had gone.
The eight-forty came into the station, snorting and puffing.