“I should rather think not! Mother, do you want me to get a decent degree, or do you not?” “But of course you’re sure to,” said Lady Laura with provoking optimism, hanging on his arm. “And now give us some tea, for we’re all ravenous! And what about that girl, Lady Constance?” “She can’t come. Her aunt has made another engagement for her. You’ll meet her at the boats.” Lady Laura looked relieved. “Well then, we can go straight to our tea. But of course I wrote. I always do what you tell me, Duggy. Come along, children!” “Trix and I got a packet of Banbury cakes at Didcot,” reported Roger, in triumph, showing a greasy paper. “But we’ve eat ’em all.” “Little pigs!” said Falloden, surveying them. “And now I suppose you’re going to gorge again?” “We shall disgrace you!” shouted both the children joyously—“we knew we should!” But Falloden hunted them all into a capacious fly, and they drove off to Marmion, where a room had been borrowed for the tea-party. Falloden sat on the box with folded arms and a sombre countenance. Why on earth had his mother brought the children? It was revolting to have to appear on the barge with such a troop. And all his time would be taken up with looking after them—time which he wanted for quite other things. However, he was in for it. At Marmion he led the party through two quads and innumerable passages, till he pointed to a dark staircase up which they climbed, each member of the family—except the guide—talking at the top of their voices. On the third floor, Falloden paused and herded them into the room of a shy second-year man, very glad to do such a “blood” as Falloden a kindness, and help entertain his relations. “Well, thank God, I’ve got you in!” said Falloden gloomily, as he shut the door behind the last of them. “How Duggy does hustle us! I’ve had nothing of a tea!” said Roger, looking resentfully, his mouth full of cake, at his elder brother, who was already beginning to take out his watch, to bid his mother and sisters resume their discarded jackets, and to send a scout for a four-wheeler. But Falloden was inexorable. He tore his sister Nelly, a soft fluffy creature of seventeen, away from the shy attentions of the second-year man, scoffed in disgust at Trix’s desire for chocolates after a Gargantuan meal, and declared that they would all be late for the Eights, if any more gorging was allowed. His mother rose obediently. To be seen with such a son in the crowded Oxford streets filled her with pride. She could have walked beside him for hours. At the college gate, Trix pinched her brother’s arm. “Well, Duggy, say it!” “Say what, you little scug?” “‘Thank God, I’ve got you out!’” laughed the child, laying her cheek against his coat-sleeve. “That’s what you’re thinking. You know you are. I say, Duggy, you do look jolly in those colours!”