His school life, his first summer term at Oxford, the Cherwell with the shadows of the branches overhead dappling the water, the strenuous week of the Eights, his climbs with Linforth, and, above all, London in June, a London bright with lilac and sunshine and the fair faces of women, crowded in upon his memory.

He had been steadily of late refusing to remember, but the sweet voice and the plaintive melody had caught him unawares.

The ghosts of his dead pleasures trooped out and took life and substance.

Particular hours were lived through again--a motor ride alone with Violet Oliver to Pangbourne, a dinner on the lawn outside the inn, the drive back to London in the cool of the evening.

It all seemed very far away to-night.