* * * * *
The senior day-room at Seymour’s rejoiced considerably that night. The air was dark with flying cushions, and darker still, occasionally, when the usual humorist turned the gas out. Milton was out, for he had gone to the dinner which followed the Ripton match, and the man in command of the house in his absence was Mill. And the senior day-room had no respect whatever for Mill.
Barry joined in the revels as well as his ankle would let him, but he was not feeling happy. The disappointment of being out of the first still weighed on him.
At about eight, when things were beginning to grow really lively, and the noise seemed likely to crack the window at any moment, the door was flung open and Milton stalked in.
“What’s all this row?” he inquired. “Stop it at once.”
As a matter of fact, the row had stopped—directly he came in.
“Is Barry here?” he asked.
“Yes,” said that youth.
“Congratulate you on your first, Barry. We’ve just had a meeting and given you your colours. Trevor told me to tell you.”