"Right," said Paul. "Ten minutes?"
"Yes—not longer. Cheerio. Good luck on the river." And he went out.
"Who's that?" demanded Donaldson. "Pal of yours? He looks a bit of an ass to me."
Paul explained, reaching for his cap and stick.
"Gosh! So you're preaching on Sunday, are you? He won't get me, anyway."
"Don't suppose he'll ask you," said Paul. "Where's Gus Strether?"
"Gussie? Waiting below, I expect. He was ordering tea for three at the kitchens when I came up."
"Well, let's go. We haven't much time if we're walking down together."
The three friends foregathered in the Court, Donaldson chaffing Strether whom he had christened "Gus" by way of a comical allusion to the other's very undandified dress. He himself wore socks and ties that proclaimed themselves, a Norfolk jacket of a light tweed and a fancy waistcoat. As they went, Paul was a little silent. He was wondering whether he liked Donaldson. And if so, why? He was aware that the meeting with Hartley had been significant, that the two would never get on together, that he was proposing to get on with both. It was puzzling....
By Jesus Bridge they chanced to meet a girl. Donaldson smiled at her, after the manner of his kind, and she smiled back at him after the manner of hers. Strether snorted after a fashion of his own. Donaldson took up his parable.