CHAPTER IV.
THE EIGHTS.
April slipped away, and it was the evening of the 30th. Frank had dined in Hall; he had been to all his lectures that morning. He knew the work for the next day. There was no need, therefore, he thought, for further work. Turning out of the Lodge-gates, hardly knowing where he was going, he strolled into the High; and just by Spiers’ he met a new acquaintance—Morton, of Magdalen.
“Where are you off, Ross?” he asked.
“Don’t know,” answered Frank; “nowhere particular.”
The fact is, Frank had been drifting of late into these evening rambles to “nowhere particular.” And a good deal of time they occupied too.
“You’d better come down to my rooms. I’ve got one or two fellows coming in for a hand at whist.”
Frank, not being the impossible model young man of the story-books, did not resist the invitation, but, linking his arm into Morton’s, went off to Magdalen. The April night was not so warm that a fire was not pleasant. Morton’s rooms were in the old quad, looking out towards the new buildings and the deer-park. The curtains were drawn and the lights burning. Several little tables were laid with dessert, and one cleared in the centre of the room, with packs of cards upon it. There were about a dozen men present.