"You mean his political speech, when his spectacles were smashed, and he had to take to the woods?" asked Vaughan, beating his hands and stamping, for the cold was bitter.
"Oh no, that's ancient. I mean"—and Buller's voice broke with laughter—"I mean his engagement!"
"Crabbe! oh, nonsense!"
"Gospel fact, I'll take my oath on it. Fancy Crabbe!" and again his laughter froze into white puffs of breath about his head. They went into the station together, and bought their tickets. Crabbe engaged! Vaughan tried to picture him as an accepted lover. Poor Crabbe! They had all hoped that his Fellowship and his work on the metres of Catullus would keep him out of mischief. But they might have known—those prize fellows, with so much time on their hands; and Crabbe above all, with his fixed idea that he was cut out for a man of action!
"But tell me about Crabbe," Vaughan said, as they waited on the platform; "have you seen him?"
"Oh yes. The other day I ran up to have a look at the 'Torpid.' It's all right now."
"The Torpid?"
"No; I mean about Crabbe."
"You think it's a good match, then?"
"Good match! No, I mean that I went and talked to him myself."