There is all the difference in the world between knowing that a catastrophe is going to happen, and knowing that it has happened.  Jack knew—­at least, with all his reasonable part—­that Frank was going to leave Cambridge in the preposterous manner described, after breakfast with himself; and it was partly because of this very knowledge that he had got up earlier in order to have an extra hour with Frank before the final severance came.  Yet there was something in him—­the same thing that had urged him to rehearse little speeches in bed just now—­that told him that until it had actually happened, it had not happened, and, just conceivably, might not happen after all.  And he had had no idea how strong this hopeful strain had been in him—­nor, for that matter, how very deeply and almost romantically he was attached to Frank—­until he felt his throat hammering and his head becoming stupid, as he read the terse little note in the fresh morning air of Jesus Lane.

It ran as follows: 

“DEAR JACK,

“It’s no good, and I’m off early!  That ass Mackintosh went and wired to my people directly I left him.  I tracked him down.  And there’ll be the devil to pay unless I clear out.  So I can’t come to breakfast.  Sorry.

“Yours,
“F.G.

“P.S.—­By the way, you might as well go round to the little man and try to keep him quiet.  Tell him it’ll make a scandal for Trinity College, Cambridge, if he makes a fuss.  That’ll stop him, perhaps.  And you might try to rescue my saddle from the porter.  He’s probably got it by now.”

Three minutes later a figure in a sweater, gray trousers, canvas shoes, Third Trinity blazer and no cap, stood, very inarticulate with breathlessness, at the door of the Senior Dean’s rooms, demanding of a scandalized bed-maker to see the official in question.

“’E’s in his barth, sir!” expostulated the old woman.

“Then he must come out of it!” panted Jack.

“—­That is, if ‘e’s out o’ bed.”

“Then he can stop in it, if he isn’t....  I tell you—­”

Jack gave up arguing.  He took the old lady firmly by the shoulders, and placed her in the doorway of the audience-room; then he was up the inner stairs in three strides, through the sitting-room, and was tapping at the door of the bedroom.  A faint sound of splashing ceased.

“Who’s there?  Don’t—­”

“It’s me, sir—­Kirkby!  I’m sorry to disturb you, but—­”

“Don’t come in!” cried an agitated voice, with a renewed sound of water, as if someone had hastily scrambled out of the bath.

Jack cautiously turned the handle and opened the door a crack.  A cry of dismay answered his move, followed by a tremendous commotion and swishing of linen.

“I’m coming in, sir,” said Jack, struggling between agitation and laughter.  It was obvious from the sounds that the clergyman had got into bed again, wet, and as God made him.  There was no answer, and Jack pushed the door wider and went in.