After luncheon, he cannot get free, but must watch football or the humours of “tubbing” on the river. His companions, with all the easy omniscience of public-school boys, are so busy telling him what’s what, that he learns little of what is. And at tea, he is as wise as they, and has the tired emotion of one who has been through fairyland on a motor car. A week in this style broadens his horizon; his optimism, still strong, embraces mankind and excludes most men. A series of teas with senior men and a crowd of contemporaries fails to exhilarate him. The shy are silent: the rest talk about their schools; appear advanced men of the world; and shock their seniors, who in their turn dispense tales about dons, and useful information: and he feels ashamed to be silent and contemptuous of what is said. His grace in hall has become so portentous that his neighbour hums the Dead March in _Saul_ by way of accompaniment. With some misgiving he goes alone to his room, sports his oak--which others so often do for him when he is out--and puts his room in order. His college shield, brilliantly and incorrectly blazoned, hangs above the door. Photographs of his newest acquaintances rest for the time upon his desk. He has not yet learned to respect the photograph of a Botticelli above the mantelpiece, and has tucked under its frame a caricature of some college worthy, with visiting-cards, notes of invitation, a table of work, and his first _menu_. On the mantelpiece are photographs that recall tenderer things, along with his meerschaum and straight-grained briar. For a minute he is interrupted by a kick, an undeniable shout, a cigar, and behind it the captain of Rugby football. “Can you play?” says the captain. “I have never tried,” says the freshman, modestly. The captain retires, after conferring an indignity in pert monosyllables, and familiarly inquiring after “all your aunts.” “How do you know I have any aunts, Mr.----?” he inquires. “Oh,” replies the captain, “I never heard of a [Illustration: HOLYWELL CHURCH Holywell is the Campo Santo of Oxford, and many names famous in her history are found there. The almost ruined cottage and desolate garden make a suitable foreground. The view is from the north-west. nephew without an aunt, and I am sure you couldn’t do without several.” “I wonder why he came to Oxford,” reflects the freshman. “He’s mistaken his calling,” chuckles the other on the way downstairs.