That was Hugo’s last year at Oxford. He belonged to Literary Societies and read essays to them. He enjoyed himself very much, I think. He seemed so full of interest in so many things that I wondered at him sometimes—and wondered what he would do in the end.
His enthusiasm for Paulina died down again. Exactly when it died, or why, I do not know, but I felt it go, and so did the others.
It was Guy who first spoke of it, when we were at Yearsly that Christmas. We were sitting in the old schoolroom, round the fire. He was sucking at his pipe, and he took it out to fill.
‘Hugo has recovered,’ he said. ‘The Paulina episode has passed.’ George grunted.
‘Time too,’ he said, and it almost sounded to me as though he were annoyed with Hugo. ‘Hugo takes a long time to grow up,’ he said. Guy laughed.
‘You talk as though you were fifty, George,’ he said.
‘I am fifty,’ George answered, ‘compared to Hugo. That is partly,’ he added blandly, ‘why I am less charming.’
‘Only partly,’ rejoined Guy, stuffing down his pipe.
Guy and George always smoked pipes. Hugo did not. He started at one time, but gave it up.
‘He’ll smoke a pipe when he’s grown up,’ said George.