"Many Continental theories," said Alfred, "when they die, go to Oxford. I'm afraid your friend Ludovici's theory has been sent down even from there. Have you read Barrow's Fallacy of the Nietzschean doctrine?"
"N-no," said Arthur.
"Or Erichsen's Completion of Self? You can get the paper edition for a bob."
"I'm sorry to say I haven't," said Arthur, who looked sadly chap-fallen. "But I will. However, for the moment I've got a meeting on—our literary club, you know."
"I'm coming round to raid you one night," I said, "to see if you're all registered."
For reply Arthur slammed the door behind him.
"Alfred," I said, when Arthur had left the house, "you astound me. Who are these new friends and their philosophies, Barrow and the Danish fellow, what's his name?"
"Mere inventions," said Alfred, "but they served."
"Then the fat's in the fire," I said; "he'll find out that you've been pulling his leg before lunch-time to-morrow."
"That's all right," said Alfred. "Our lot's booked for Pirbright to-morrow morning, and we shan't meet again till the other side of Peace."