one thought of the summer and cricket and bathing and the long, cool evenings. And as Howard had now left, there was nothing to molest his enjoyment of these good things.
He decided, after careful deliberation, to keep it up with Dolly. There had been moments during the holidays when he had sworn to break with her; it would be quite easy now that Howard had left. And often during an afternoon in April’s company the idea of embracing Dolly had been repulsive to him. But he had been piqued by April’s behavior at the dance, and his conduct was not ordered by a carefully-thought-out code of morals. He responded to the atmosphere of the moment; his emotion, while the moment that inspired it lasted, was sincere.
And so every Sunday afternoon he used to bicycle out towards Yeovil and meet Dolly on the edge of a little wood. They would wheel their machines inside and sit together in the shelter of the hedge. They did not talk much; there was not much for them to discuss. But she would take off her hat and lean her head against his shoulder and let him kiss her as much as he wanted. She was not responsive, but then Roland hardly expected it. His small experience of the one-sided romances of school life had led him to believe that love was a thing of male desire and gracious, womanly compliance. He never thought that anyone would want to kiss him. He would look at his reflection in the glass and marvel at the inelegance of his features—an ordinary face with ordinary eyes, ordinary nose, ordinary mouth. Of his hair certainly he was proud; it was a triumph. But he doubted whether Dolly appreciated the care with which he had trained it to lie back from his forehead in one immaculate wave. She had, indeed, asked him to give up brilliantine.
“It’s so hard and smarmy,” she complained; “I can’t run my fingers through it.”
The one good point about him was certainly lost on Dolly. He wondered whether April liked it. April and Dolly! It was hard to think of the two together. What would April say if she were to hear about Dolly? It was the theme Ralph was always driving at him like a nail, with heavy, ponderous blows. An interesting point. What would April say? He considered the question, not as a possible criticism of his own conduct, but as the material for an intriguing, dramatic situation. It would be hard to make her see the difference. “I’m a girl and she’s a girl and you want to kiss us both.” That was how she would look at it, probably—so illogical. One might as well say that water was the same thing and had the same effect as champagne. Ridiculous! But it would be hard to make April see it.
And there was a difference, big difference; he felt it before a fortnight of the new term had passed. In spite of the kisses he was never moved by Dolly’s presence as he was by April’s. His blood was calm—calmer, far calmer, than it had been last term. He never felt now that excitement, that dryness of the throat that used to assail him in morning chapel towards the end of the Litany. Something had passed, and it was not solely April, though, no doubt, she had formed a standard in his mind and had her share in this disenchantment. It was more than that. In a subtle way, although he had hardly exchanged a dozen words with her in his life, he missed Betty. He had enjoyed more than he had realized at the time those moments of meeting and parting, when the four of them had stood together, awkward, embarrassed, waiting for someone to suggest a separation. It had always been Betty who had done it, with a toss of her head: “Come on, Dolly, time to be getting on”; or else: “Now, then, Dolly, isn’t it time you were taking your Roland away with you?” And what a provocative, infinitely suggestive charm that slow smile of hers had held for him. The thrill of it had borne him triumphantly over the preliminaries of courtship. He missed it now, and often he found himself talking of her to Dolly.
“Did she really like Howard?” he asked her once.
“Yes, I think so; in fact, I know she did. Though I couldn’t see what she saw in him myself. I suppose there was something about him. She misses him quite a lot, so she says.”
This statement Roland considered an excellent cue for an exchange of gallantries.
“But wouldn’t you miss me if I went?”
Dolly, however, was greatly interested in her own subject.
“Yes,” she went on, “she seems really worried. Only the other day she said to me: ‘Dolly, I can’t get on without that boy. There’s nothing to look forward to of a Sunday now, and I get so tired of my work.’ And when I said to her: ‘But, my dear Betty, there’s hundreds more fish in the sea. What about young Rogers at the post office?’ she answers: ‘Oh, him! my boy’s spoilt me for all that. I can’t bear the sight of young Rogers any more.’ Funny, isn’t it?”
Roland agreed with her. To him it was amazing.
“Well,” Dolly went on, “I saw quite clearly that there was nothing for it but that she must get hold of another young chap like your friend. And I asked her if there was anyone else up at the school she fancied, and she said, yes, there was; a boy she’s seen you talking to once or twice; a young, fair-haired fellow with a blue and yellow hat ribbon. That’s the best I can do. Is that any help to you? Would you know him?”
A blue and yellow hat ribbon limited the selection to members of the School XI., and there was only one old color who answered to that description—Brewster in Carus Evans’.
“Oh, yes, I know him.”
“Well, now, don’t you think you could arrange it? Do, for my sake.”
“But I don’t know him well enough. I don’t see how I could.”
“Oh, yes, you do. Haven’t I seen you talking together, and he would be only too pleased. I am sure he would. Betty’s such a nice girl. Now, do try.”
Roland promised that he would do his best, though it was not a job he particularly fancied. Brewster was the youngest member of the XI. He had been playing on lower side games all the season without attracting any attention and had then surprised everyone by making a century in an important house match. He was immediately transplanted to the first, and though he played in only two matches he was considered to have earned his colors. He was not, however, in any sense of the word a blood. He was hardly known by men of Roland’s standing in other houses. He was low in form and not particularly brilliant at football. Roland knew next to nothing about him. Still it was a fascinating situation—a girl like Betty, who must be a good three years older than Dolly, getting keen on such a kid. Was she in love, he wondered. He had never met anyone who had enjoyed the privilege of having a girl in love with him. For towards the end he had believed very little of all that Howard had told him. This was distinctly an intriguing affair. And so he set himself to his task.
The difficulty, of course, was to find the auspicious moment. He hardly ever saw Brewster except when there were a lot of other people about, and he didn’t want to ask him across to his study. People would talk; and, besides, it would not do to spring this business on him suddenly. He would have to lead up to it carefully. For a whole week he sought, unsuccessfully, for an opportunity, and on the Sunday he had to confess to Dolly that he was no nearer the attainment of her friend’s desires.
“It’s not as easy as you seem to think it is. We are not in the same house, we are not in the same form, and we don’t play footer on the same ground. In fact, except that we happen to be in the same school——”
“Now! now! now! Haven’t I seen you talking to him alone twice before I even mentioned him to you? And if you could be alone with him then, when you had no particular reason to, surely you can manage to be now, when you have.”
“But, my dear Dolly——”
“There’ve not got to be any buts. Either you bring along your friend or it’s all over between us.”
It
