But the other three mattered.

They were definite--Jaffery, blatantly definite; Adrian Boldero, in his queer, silky way, incisively definite; Tom Castleton, romantically definite.

And poor old Tom was dead.

Dear, impossible, feckless fellow.

He took a first class in the Classical Tripos and we thought his brilliant career was assured--but somehow circumstances baffled him; he had a terrible time for a dozen years or so, taking pupils, acting, free-lancing in journalism, his father having, in the meanwhile, died suddenly penniless; and then Fortune smiled on him.