That I know; that I knew.
But I could not remember it then.

I only remembered that years before Harry Feversham had been my friend, my one great friend; that we had rowed in the same college boat at Oxford, he at stroke, I at seven; that the stripes on his jersey during three successive eights had made my eyes dizzy during those last hundred yards of spurt past the barges.
We had bathed together in Sandford Lasher on summer afternoons.

We had had supper on Kennington Island; we had cut lectures and paddled up the Cher to Islip.

And here he was at Wadi Halfa, herding with that troupe, an outcast, sunk to such a depth of ill-fortune that he must come to that squalid little town and play the zither vilely before a crowd of natives and a few Greek clerks for his night's lodging and the price of a meal." "No," Ethne interrupted suddenly.

"It was not for that reason that he went to Wadi Halfa." "Why, then ?" asked Durrance.
"I cannot think.