He was going to look out a horse for Constance Bledlow.
As he walked, he said to himself that he was heartily sick of this Oxford life, ragging and all.

It was a good thing it was so nearly done.
He meant to get his First, because he didn't choose, having wasted so much time over it, not to get it.

But it wouldn't give him any particular pleasure to get it.

The only thing that really mattered was that Constance Bledlow was in Oxford, and that when his schools were over, he would have nothing to do but to stay on two or three weeks and force the running with her.

He felt himself immeasurably older than his companions with whom he had just been rioting.