The proposal came opportunely to Jeffreys. He was in the humour of accepting anything for a change; and this carte blanche proposal, and the responsibility it involved, contained a spice of excitement which suited with his present mood.
He went down to Exeter that night, trying to think of nothing but Lord Waterfield’s books, and to forget all about Raby, and Percy, and Mrs Rimbolt, and Scarfe.
The last-named hero and his two friends duly presented themselves at Clarges Street next day. Scarfe was in great good-humour with himself, and even his antipathies to the world at large were decidedly modified by the discovery that Jeffreys was out of town.
His two friends were of the gay and festive order—youths who would have liked to be considered fast, but betrayed constantly that they did not yet know the way how.
Percy, with his usual facile disposition, quickly fell into the ways of the trio, and rather enjoyed the luxury of now and then getting a rise out of the undergrads by showing that “he knew a thing or two” himself.
They spent their first few days together in “going it”—that is, in seeing and doing all they could. Scarfe’s friends began shyly, feeling their way both with their host and hostess and with their son. But then they saw that Mr Rimbolt was far too engrossed to think of anything beyond that they should all enjoy themselves and do as they liked—when they saw that Mrs Rimbolt swore by Scarfe, and, to use the choice language of one of them, “didn’t sit up at anything as long as the Necktie was in it”—and when they saw that Percy was a cool hand, and, whatever he thought, did not let himself be startled by anything, these two ingenuous youths plucked up heart and “let out all round.”
They haunted billiard saloons, but failed to delude any one into the belief that they knew one end of a cue from another. They went to theatres, where the last thing they looked at was the stage. They played cards without being quite sure what was the name of the game they played. They smoked cigars, which it was well for their juvenile stomachs were “warranted extra mild”; and they drank wine which neither made glad their hearts nor improved their digestions; and they spiced their conversation with big words which they did not know the meaning of themselves, and would certainly have never found explained in the dictionary.
Percy, after a few days, got sick of it. He had never “gone it” in this style before; and finding out what it meant, he didn’t see much fun in it. Late hours and unwholesome food and never-ending “sport” did not agree with him. He had looked forward to seeing a lot of the boat practice on the river, and hearing a lot about University sport and life. But in this he was disappointed. The “boats” were voted a nuisance; and whenever the talk turned on Oxford it was instantly tabooed as “shop.” Scarfe sneered to him in private about these two fools, but when with them he “went it” with the rest, and made no protest.
“Percy,” said Raby, two or three days after this sort of thing had been going on, “you look wretchedly pale and tired. Why do you stay out so late every night?”
“Oh,” said Percy wearily, “I don’t know—we humbug about. Nothing very bad.”