He became suddenly aware, and for the first time in his life, that his clothes were shabby, and that his boots were in holes.
"I shouldn't have known you," he replied; "you look so much older than when I saw you last." "So I am; but, I say," added Bland, reddening as an acquaintance passed and nodded to him, "I'm rather in a hurry, Cruden, just now.

If you're not engaged this evening, come and dine with me at seven at the Shades, and we can have a talk.

Good-bye." And he went on hurriedly, leaving Reginald with an uncomfortable suspicion that if he--Reginald--had been more smartly dressed, and had worn gloves and a tall hat, the interview would have been more cordial and less hasty.
However, the longing he felt for the old happy days that were past decided him to appear at the Shades at the hour appointed, although it meant absence from home on one of his few remaining evenings, and, still more, a further desertion of young Gedge.
He repented of his resolution almost as soon as he had made it.

What was to be gained by assuming a false position for an evening, and trying to delude himself into the notion that he was the equal of his old comrade?
Did not his clothes, his empty pockets, the smart of Durfy's tongue, and even the letter now on its way to Mr Medlock, all disprove it?
And yet, three months ago, he was a better man all round than Blandford, who had been glad to claim his friendship and accept his father's hospitality.

Reginald rebelled against the idea that they two could still be anything to one another than the friends they had once been; but all the while the old school saw came back into his mind--that imposition sentence he had in his day written out hundreds of times without once thinking of its meaning: _Tempora mutantur et nos mutamur in illis_.
He reached the Shades a few minutes before seven, and waited outside till his friend arrived.