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be imagining things? All their faces bore expressions of unconcern: Christopher Warner—John had begun to study him the most, as he knew that Christopher and he were already linked together—Christopher sat on the edge of the fender seat, staring lightly at thecarpet, occasionally glancing sideways at Eddy. The gap in the conversation widened second by second. What was wrong?
    Cautiously, beginning to feel a twisting apprehension like the beginnings of seasickness, he inspected himself, noting that his fly-buttons were fastened, finding nothing unusual about his appearance, so that his blush intensified, and he tried to stand very erect and militarily. Then he thought this was silly, and tried to adopt a nonchalant pose, crossing his feet and staring out of the window. Eddy Makepeace cleared his throat with a sharp, artificial sound. And Elizabeth took a handkerchief from her handbag and wiped her nose carefully, so as not to disturb the powder. Christopher, extending his silver cigarette-case, said with an uneasy smile:
    “Tube for anyone?”
    But his words were drowned by the frothing of water on the hot fire as the kettle boiled over, and he quickly took it off, using a handkerchief to hold it. Everyone reached for their cups, stretching and shifting. “Oh, what an age ,” cried Elizabeth, trying to obscure the pause that had been broken by holding out her cup childishly. “Me, Chris, me . Oo, do buck up .”
    “Visitors first,” said Christopher Warner, filling a cup for John. “Do you take sugar?” He paused, changing his grip on the teapot. “Christ, the damn thing’s hot.”
    “Oh—er—thanks,” John, still fiery red, struggled for something to say. “Do you know—er—rather a funny thing, I think we’ve both brought the same kind of china——”
    He was interrupted by a howl of laughter so sudden and boisterous that he jumped and looked round him in alarm. Everyone was wildly amused. Elizabeth snatched her tiny handkerchief again, and, holding it to her eyes, shook with merriment. Eddy Makepeace gave short barks of laughter, that were irritating because they sounded forced: Hugh Stanning-Smith was chuckling in a well-bred way, and Patrick Dowling looked sideways up at him with a foxy jeer.
    “What—what’s wrong?” he exclaimed, startled for once into natural behaviour.
    More laughter. His bewilderment caused a second, cruderburst, as if a comedian, having told a funny story, had proceeded to sit on his hat.
    “Oh, God,” gasped Christopher Warner at last, taking his handkerchief from around the teapot handle and mopping his eyes with it. “Oh, dear! My dear fellow, these are your crocks.… Oh, Lord!” His face creased in another spasm of laughter, and gusts of it coughed from his chest. “Oh, God, I shall spill the——” He put the teapot down and a little tea slopped out of the spout on to the cloth. “I say, you must excuse us. I haven’t any crocks: I’m afraid we broke your crate open and gave your things a christening—I say, I do hope you don’t mind——”
    John understood at once. Like every freshman, he had received a list from the Bursary giving a list of domestic articles that he should be provided with on coming into residence, such as two pairs of sheets, a set of china, a kettle, a cruet and so on. Three weeks ago his mother had insisted that they spent an afternoon among the shops buying these things: it had been a touching little expedition, meaning, he realized, far more to her than to him. They had had tea afterwards in a cinema café, with teacakes.
    Most of the things they had bought lay dirty and scattered around the room; in fact, John wondered they had lain unrecognized for so long. The crate (he saw it now) was behind Christopher’s trunk, broken open carelessly, so that it would be impossible to use it again, as he had intended to do. These, then, were his cups and plates: his coffee strainer (choked with tea leaves); his shining kettle blackened by