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again.”
    At this point, in one of those moments which seem crucial only because they complete long, hidden processes, a man disappeared: a right-thinking, crisply defined, forcible person, rather dogmatic and intolerant in a decent, humorous way; the nearest in succession of Laurie’s potential selves. A usurper moved in, all unaware of himself, concerned only with his sudden perception of the fact that Lanyon’s steady gaze was being held up with tightened muscles, like a weight. At the higher-barbarian phase of adolescence, it comes as unwanted, dismaying news that the gods feel pain. But it seemed to Laurie that something had to be done, and no one else was here to do it All the rest would have to be thought about later.
    “All right,” he said. “I’ll promise not to do anything, if you like. But it’s not because I feel any different, or … I mean I’d as soon do it now as ever. Sooner.” Some change in the quality of the pause made him lose the thread of what he was saying. He finished. “I don’t think things ought to be let happen like this.”
    “You don’t think at all.” Lanyon paused a moment, blankly. Then his eyes seemed to relax. Slowly a perverse and charming smile, unfamiliar to Laurie, lifted the ends of his mouth. “Your spontaneous reactions are going to land you in a lot of trouble, if you don’t look out.”
    “Are they?” said Laurie vaguely. Instinct caused him to keep some sort of conversation going; if someone had asked him a second later what he had said, he couldn’t have answered. So this, he was thinking, is what it’s all about, all Jeepers’ snufflings and fidgetings, all that bated breath. In a mingled exaltation, pride, and sheer consuming interest, he smiled back into Lanyon’s eyes. Scarcely aware of continuing the unheard, instead of the heard, conversation, he said, “Jeepers is just a dirty old man. People like that don’t know.”
    “Do you?” asked Lanyon, watching his face.
    “Anyway,” said Laurie, “I do now.”
    Lanyon seemed about to step forward; and Laurie waited. He didn’t think what he was waiting for. He was lifted into a kind of exalted dream, part loyalty, part hero-worship, all romance. Half-remembered images moved in it, the tents of Troy, the columns of Athens, David waiting in an olive grove for the sound of Jonathan’s bow.
    Still watching him, Lanyon made a little outward movement. He paused, and drew back.
    “To give them their due,” he said, his voice suddenly light and crisp, “dirty old men know one or two quite material facts. Incidentally, they’re quite material facts themselves.”
    Laurie listened with his eyes. This time there was no need to answer.
    “You’ll be taking this study over yourself,” said Lanyon in a businesslike way, “in course of time.”
    “Who? Me?” said Laurie, startled.
    “Obviously. Who else is there? I expect Jeepers will give you a frank little talk the first evening of term. Watch him carefully while he does it, and you’ll learn a lot. It’s not very edifying and rather a bore. However. Oh, just a minute.”
    He turned and went over to the wooden book-box that stood in the window. Instinctively Laurie followed him, and looked over his shoulder. Lanyon straightened abruptly; his light, fine hair flicked across Laurie’s cheek.
    “Get out of the light: d’you mind?”
    “Sorry.”
    “I’m just looking for something. Oh, yes, here it is.” He stood up with a thin leather book. The spine said The Phaedrus of Plato. Laurie hadn’t got much beyond selections from Homer. He thought Lanyon, in this practical mood, was bequeathing him a crib.
    “Read it when you’ve got a minute,” said Lanyon casually, “as an antidote to Jeepers. It doesn’t exist anywhere in real life, so don’t let it give you illusions. It’s just a nice idea.”
    Laurie was strongly aware that as he took it their hands had touched. He said, “I’ll always keep it. Thank you.”
    “It’s a pity you and