“Lucky devils!” sighed Wedderburn. “By gad, if I only had my time at the Varsity all over again.”
But just when Wedderburn had by his solemnity almost managed really to impress the company with a sense of fleeting time, and when even upon Lonsdale was descending the melancholy of the deep-dyed afternoon, across the road they could see sauntering three men whom they all knew well.
“Tally-ho-ho-ho-whooop!” shouted Lonsdale.
The three men saluted thus came upstairs to the big room of Two Hundred and Two, and a bout of amiable ragging and rotting passed away the hour before dinner and restored to the big room itself the wonted air of imperishable good-fellowship.
“Lucky you lads turned up,” said Lonsdale. “Old Wedders has been moping in his window-seat like a half-plucked pigeon. We’re dining in hall to-night, are you?”
The newcomers were dining in hall, and so in a wide line of brilliant ties and ribbons the seven of them strolled down to college.
There were very few people in hall that night, and Venner’s was pleasantly empty. Venner himself was full of anecdotes, and as they sat on the table in the middle of the room, drinking their coffee, it seemed impossible enough to imagine that they would not be forever here drinking their coffee on a fine June evening.
“Going down soon, Venner,” said Wedderburn, who was determined to make somebody sad.
“What a pity you’re not taking a fourth year!” said Venner. “You ought to have read an Honor School. I always advise the men to read for honors. The dons like it, you know.”
“Got to go and earn my living, Venner,” said Wedderburn.