"Well, you're fixed for Queen's Club—just heard—got your Blue all right. You and Whymper ought to do fine things between you, although stickin' two individualists together on the same wing like that ain't exactly my idea, and they don't as a rule settle the team as early as this"—Lawrence put a large hand on Olva's knee. "Goin' home for Christmas?" he said.
"I expect so."
"Well, yer see—I've got a sort of idea. I wish this vac, you'd come an' stay with us for a bit. Good old sorts, my people. Governor quite a brainy man—and you could talk, you two. There'll be lots of people tumblin' about the place—lots goin' on, and the governor'll like to have a sensible feller once in a way . . . and I'd like it too," he ended at the bottom of his gruff voice.
"Well, you see;" Olva explained, "it depends a bit on my own father. He's all alone up there at our place, and I like to be with him as much as possible." Olva looked through the window at the snow, grey against the sky, white against the college walls. "I don't quite know where I shall be—I think you must let me write to you."
"Oh! that's all right," said Lawrence. "I want you to come along some time. You'd like the governor—and if you don't mind listening to an ass like me—well, I'd take it as an honour if you'd talk to me a bit."
As Olva looked Lawrence in the eyes he knew that it would be well with him if, in his journey through the world, he met again so good a soul. Cardillac joined them and they all talked for a little. Then Olva said good-night.
He turned for a moment at the door and looked back. Some one at the other end of the room was singing "Egypt" to a cracked piano. A babel of laughter, of chatter, every now and again men tumbled against one another, like cubs in a cave, and rolled upon the floor. Lawrence, his feet planted wide apart, was standing in the middle of an admiring circle, explaining something very slowly.
"If the old scrum-half," he was saying, "only stood back enough—-"
What a splendid lot they were! What a life it was! So much joy in the heart of so much beauty! . . . Cambridge!
As he crossed the white court the strains of "Egypt" came, like a farewell, through the tumbling snow.