The clock in the Elizabethan gable above the Hall was striking eleven as he and Donaldson, the ritual of that first coffee ended, came out into the starlight. Below, in the First Court, they stood a moment to say good-night. Lights gleamed in a few windows and a soft radiance of moonshine fell on the armorial bearings in the great oriel of the Hall. The few street noises seemed very remote. There was an air of seclusion, of peace, about the place, and Paul drew in the night air with great breaths. "How unutterably lovely it all is!" he exclaimed.
The other glanced round carelessly. "Yes," he said, "I say, that fellow Strether wants taking in hand."
"Oh?" queried Paul dubiously.
"Good God, yes. Did you ever see such boots? And his bags! But he's got some money, I should say. Still, one can't be seen with him till he gets something decent to wear."
"I liked him," said Paul shortly.
"Oh so did I. But look here, let's pinch his boots and make him buy some decent brogues."
Paul was tickled. "All right," he said, laughing. "But how?"
"Easily enough. Wait till he's out. Come to brekker to-morrow, and arrange a plan of campaign."
"What time?"
"Any time you like. Say nine. There's no chapel and no lekkers yet. Will that do?"