bicycle, as Desmond had prophesied. He refused to ride on; and Roy
limped beside him, feeling absurdly elated. The godlike one had come to
earth indeed! Only the remark about his mother still rankled; but he
felt shy of returning to the subject. The change in Desmond's manner had
puzzled him. Roy glanced admiringly at his profile--the straight nose,
the long mouth that smiled so readily, the resolute chin, a little in
the air. A clear case of love at sight, schoolboy love; a passing phase
of human efflorescence; yet, in passing, it will sometimes leave a mark
for life. Roy, instinctively a hero-worshipper, registered a new
ambition--to become Desmond's friend.

Presently, as if aware of his thought, Desmond spoke.

"I say, Sinclair, how old are you? You seem less of a kid than most of
the new lot."

"I'm ten and a half," said Roy, wishing it was eleven.

"Bit late for starting. I'm twelve. Going on to Marlborough next year."

Roy felt crushed. In a year he would be gone! Still--there were three
more terms: and _he_ would go on to Marlborough too. He would insist.

"Does Scab Ma. bother you much?" Desmond asked with a friendly twinkle.

"Now and then--nothing to fuss about."

Roy's nonchalance, though plucky, was not quite convincing.

"Righto! I'll head him off. He isn't keen to knock up against me." A