into men while he was working at Athenaeus--always Athenaeus.
His forehead was burning, and as he pushed his hand across it, he seemed
to read in the darkness under the laburnum-tree, "_Jesus have mercy on
Miles Tonken, Fellow. Anno 1545," and found a new meaning--an irony--in
the words.

Then, because more and more the task of his life became a hopeless
weight, he gave a look at his notebooks and escaped out of the room,
downstairs into the fresh air of the quad, and across it towards the
porter's lodge. He found the porter napping, and, having a private key,
he let himself through the big gate and out into the street. No soul
was abroad: only the gas-lamps threw queer shadows of him on the
pavement, and the night-breeze struck coldly into him as he hurried
along, hating whatever he saw.

Soon, under a window in St. Giles's, he pulled up. There was a party of
young men inside--perhaps the same supper-party whose voices he had
heard just now. The light from the room flared across the street; but
by keeping close under the sill he stood in darkness, and he paused,
listening eagerly. Above, they were singing a chorus, noted in those
days--


It was pale dawn, and the sun was touching St. Mary's spire into flame
when the heavy-eyed porter heard a key turn in the wicket. It was the
Senior Fellow, and in about half an hour he appeared again at the lodge,
carrying a small bag, and handed the porter a letter addressed to the
President of the College. He then stepped out into the street, and
hurried off towards the railway station.