When
Mike woke the next morning the world was gray and dripping.
Leaden-colored clouds drifted over the sky, till there was not a trace
of blue to be seen, and then the rain began again, in the gentle,
determined way rain has when it means to make a day of it.
It was one of those bad days when one sits in the pavilion, damp and
depressed, while figures in mackintoshes, with discolored buckskin
boots, crawl miserably about the field in couples.
Mike, shuffling across to school in a Burberry, met Adair at Downing's
gate.
These moments are always difficult. Mike stopped--he could hardly walk
on as if nothing had happened--and looked down at his feet.
"Coming across?" he said awkwardly.
"Right ho!" said Adair.
They walked on in silence.
"It's only about ten to, isn't it?" said Mike.
Adair fished out his watch, and examined it with an elaborate care born
of nervousness.
"About nine to."
"Good. We've got plenty of time."
"Yes."
"I hate having to hurry over to school."
"So do I."
"I often do cut it rather fine, though."
"Yes. So do I."
"Beastly nuisance when one does."
"Beastly."
"It's only about a couple of minutes from the houses to the school, I
should think, shouldn't you?"
"Not much more.
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