Bunny took his success with much the same feeling of elation as when he had walked to the cricket pavilion amid the cheers of his side after making his sixty or seventy runs. It was jolly to make runs, it was jolly to write poetry, and it was jolly to have one’s skill appreciated. He was too young, too wholesome, too boyish to have his head turned. It was a far more important matter to him to earn his living; and he was not quite sure of his livelihood even now.
He had been accustomed to spend money freely. At home, in Cornwall, he had horses to ride and covers to shoot, and a valet to help him on with his trousers. All this came to an end at the beginning of his third year at Cambridge, when his father died hopelessly involved in financial difficulties, leaving Bunny to face the world wi
