Their eyes met suddenly. They both blushed and were silent. Fanshaw got to his feet and walked stiffly to the bookcase to put away his book.
"But Cham." He was hoarse; he cleared his throat. "I don't want to carry on with those girls. I don't ... I don't do that sort of thing."
"Don't worry, they won't eat you. I tell you they are very respectable girls. They don't want to carry on with anybody. They like to have a good time, that's all."
"But all day seems so long."
"We won't start till eleven or so. Phoebe won't be up. Just time to get acquainted."
From far away dustily came the bored strokes of the college bell.
"Ah, there's my three-thirty," said Fanshaw.
It was hot in the room. There was a faint smell of stale sweat from some soiled clothes that made a heap in the center of the floor. The strokes of the bell beat on Fanshaw's ears with a dreary, accustomed weight.
"How about walking into town instead?"
Fanshaw picked up a notebook out of a patch of sun on the desk. The book was warm. The beam of sunlight was full of bright, lazy motes. Fanshaw put the book up to his mouth and yawned. Still yawning, he said: