The comfort of hot water wrapping him round was bringing to him a wonderful sense of restfulness and repose. The shouting had died away at last and he was alone. Somewhere he understood that the school were forming into a queue that stretched twice across the playing fields, waiting to give in their names as desirous of taking up boxing during the coming term. He looked ahead and he could see no single cloud upon the far horizon. The year was shaping its course for breaking record. He was amazingly content, and when at last there came a knock upon the door he turned in surprise and waited a moment before he said in guarded tones:
“Who’s that?”
“I’ve brought you a couple of hot towels,” was the answer. “I thought you’d like them.”
For a moment Rouse lay still, utterly and finally at peace with all the world. At last he replied.
“Terence, my boy,” said he, “you are not, all things considered, at all a bad old stick. One of these days I am inclined to think that I shall very probably learn to like you.”
It was, as we know, only in moments of the deepest emotion that Rouse ever called Terence by his proper name.
THE RIVERSIDE PRESS LIMITED, EDINBURGH
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE