for it but to recline on his

   tiger-skins and smoke countless cigars. He never would train.

   “Going to row to-day, Fane?” It was little Bagley Wood, the cox. Trevyllyan sanctioned his presence as if he had been a cat or a lapdog: to all others he was stern and unapproachable—a true representative of his Order.

   “Don’t know,

    caro mio

   ,” was the reply. “It’s such a bore, you know: and then I half think I promised to take La Montmorenci of the Frivolity up the Cherwell to Trumpington in the University Barge.”

   “What! when the Lady Gwendolen de St. Emilion has come down on purpose to see us catch Christ Church! why,

    sapristi

   , where can your eyes be?” The stroke hissed something between his clenched teeth, and Bagley Wood found himself flying through an unopened window.

   “

    Cherchez la femme

   ! it’s always the way with the Trevyllyans,” muttered the lad, as he picked himself up from the grass plot in the quadrangle and strolled off to quiet his nerves with a glass of

    aguardiente

   at the Mitre.

   * * * * *

   An August moon shone brightly on the last night of the great aquatic contest: the starter had fired his pistol, and all the boats but one were off.

   “Hadn’t you better think about starting, Trevyllyan?” asked the coach of the Charsley Hall Eight, a trifle pale and anxious. “See, they are all under way. Glanville Ferrers, the Christ Church stroke, swears you shan’t bump him as you did last week. He must be past the Soapworks by this time.”

   “

    Caramba

   ! then I suppose we ought to get in,” 

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