The last words of the chorus were ringing out into the quadrangle, when a porter entered the room and informed the pianist that a lady wished to see him.
"Lady!" exclaimed Jim.
"Yes, sir; wishes to see you very particular."
"Go on, Long 'Un!" yelled the students, "next verse."
But Jim's head was filled with romantic ideas. What if, for some strange, inexplicable reason, it should happen to be Dora! True, it was not very likely, but he had read in books of things like this happening.
"Half a second, you men," he said; "I've got to see somebody."
"Girl?" queried the red-haired youth from Wales.
But Jim (hoping it was) hurried out without replying to him. He found his fair visitor to be no other than Mrs Freeman, his landlady.
"Mr Mortimer, sir," she said, in some agitation, "this came for you just now, sir. I hope it's not bad news, sir."
For in the homely eyes of the landlady a telegram generally loomed large as a portent of ill. Jim opened the flimsy envelope, and read: