Lawrence pursued his slow thoughts.
"I say, you know, you—re one of these clever ones—thinkin' an' writin' an' all that—an' yet you play footer like an archangel—a blarsted archangel. Lucky devil!" He sighed heavily. "Every time I put on my footer boots," he pursued, "I say to myself, 'What you'd be givin', Jerry Lawrence, if you could just go and write a book! What you'd give! But it ain't likely—my spellin's somethin' shockin'."
Here there was interruption. Several men came rattling; laughing and shouting, down the staircase behind Lawrence and Olva.
"Oh, damn!" said Lawrence, slowly turning round upon them. Cardillac was there, also Bobby Galleon, Rupert Craven, and one or two more.
Cardillac shouted. "Hullo, Lawrence, old man. Is it true, as they say, that you've been sitting at the feet of our dearly beloved Gregg? How splendid for you!"
"I've been at our Historical Society hearin' about the Huns, and therefore there's compellin' necessity for a drink," Lawrence said, moving in the direction of his room.
"Oh! rot, don't go in yet. We're thinking of going round and paying Bunning a visit in another ten minutes. He's going to have a whole lot of men in for a prayer-meeting. Thompson's just brought word."
Thompson, a wretched creature in the Second Year, who had, during his first term, been of the pious persuasion and had since turned traitor, offered an eager assurance.
The news obviously tempted Lawrence. He moved his body slowly round.
"Well," he said slowly, then he turned to Olva. "You'll come?" he said.