The Man Who Loved His Kind by Virginia Woolf

Trotting through Deans Yard that afternoon, Prickett Ellis ran straight into Richard Dalloway, or rather, just as they were passing, the covert side glance which each was casting on the other, under his hat, over his shoulder, broadened and burst into recognition; they had not met for twenty years. They had been at school together. And what was Ellis doing? The Bar? Of course, of course--he had followed the case in the papers. But it was impossible to talk here. Wouldn't he drop in that evening. (They lived in the same old place--just round the corner). One or two people were coming. Joynson perhaps. "An awful swell now," said Richard.

"Good--till this evening then, " said Richard, and went his way, "jolly glad" (that was quite true) to have met that queer chap, who hadn't changed one bit since he had been at school--just the same knobbly, chubby little boy then, with prejudices sticking out all over him, but uncommonly brilliant--won the Newcastle. Well--off he went.