So now it was all over--all the work and anxiety. The taking of his degree remained, and--Commemoration. It was Thursday when the class-list appeared. The following Sunday was Show Sunday, the semi-official commencement of the festivities. He telegraphed to his father: “Have got a second. You must come up for Commem. I hope to put on my gown on Thursday.” He telegraphed to Rose. He wrote a long letter to his mother by that night’s post, begging her to bring one of his sisters and Rose. He wrote to Rose herself. He was in a whirl of excitement, and to conceal his emotion he ordered an elegant summer suit, which he did not in the least require, at a most obliging tailor’s not a hundred yards from St. Mary’s Church. So obliging was he, in fact, that it is matter of history that when a certain wealthy and aristocratic Irishman, in a flow of unbounded extravagance, ordered him to “send in his whole shop,” the tailor, with undisturbed equanimity, replied, “Certainly, sir! What time would you like it?” The receipt of Frank’s letter, and the request that his mother would bring Rose, produced a little commotion. His father still tried to pooh-pooh the notion of an engagement; but his mother, who had Frank’s confidence, maintained that, as far as the two were concerned, the engagement was a reality, and that it only waited the formal consent of the parents and the means to marry. So it was at last decided that Mr. and Mrs. Ross, and Frank’s elder sister, Mary, would go. The Vicar, glad of an excuse to visit Oxford again, agreed to join the party and bring Rose. And Rose herself--well, there was no need to ask her consent. On Friday morning a telegram was despatched to Frank, telling him they were coming on Saturday evening, and giving him directions to secure lodgings; and Mary and Rose were together most of the day and evening, arranging, selecting, altering, and making various articles of adornment for the coming gaieties. Pembroke concert had taken place on Thursday, Queen’s on Friday, and there was nothing for Saturday. But that was no loss to Frank’s party, for they were all too tired for any gaiety after their long journey. By a fluke--for he was late in looking for lodgings--he found some disengaged rooms in Grove Street; and the shady little corner, so close to the sunny, busy High, was most pleasant and convenient. After supper the Vicar went down to Christ-Church to “look up” some old friends, still in residence as Senior Students,[14] and the rest strolled by Merton to the river. Mr. and Mrs. Ross, not caring to trust themselves to the boat which Frank had chosen, wandered round the paths by the Cherwell, and, after losing themselves by the Botanical Gardens, eventually got safe to Grove Street. Frank rowed Rose and Mary down to Sandford, where he gave them tea in the little inn overlooking the lock, and then took them round to see the lasher that has been so fatal to many bright young lives.