After waiting an interminable time, during which the crowd at the door never seemed to grow less, I was ushered in and questioned, but on disclaiming any share in the riot, was politely bowed out. Reggie, who followed me, could not truthfully say this, and was noted down for further reference, and a share in the damages. By this time it was ten o’clock, and we hurried off to join St. Ronots, who was waiting to breakfast with us at the O.U.D.S., and to take tickets for the next musical comedy, which was nothing less than the ever popular ‘Cinq Demi-Vierges.’ In the course of the day every one who had attended the Proctorial Levée received a notice regretting that the J.P. must ask us to pay a pound apiece by that evening, which we accordingly did. It was suggested that an indignation meeting of the shareholders in Bridgeley, Houseman & Co., Proctors and General Collectors, should be summoned to demand a statement of accounts, and Reggie, who had just paid four golden sovereigns into the concern, waxed most eloquent upon the subject, but nothing ever came of it. As the Pilot cheerfully remarked on his return from taking a pound share, ‘It is indeed wonderful how we put up with our Pastors and Masters.’ VIII. AN EIGHTS’ WEEK. ‘This,’ said Freddy wearily, as he threw a cream coloured envelope upon the table, ‘is too much of a good thing; here’s an official announcement from Aunt Julia that she and her companion, a cheery young thing of sixty-five, are coming up for a fortnight to enjoy the ‘boating-races;’ she casually remarks that the girls have only one day vacant and that a Sunday, so that it will not be worth while their putting in an appearance.’ ‘Her postscript,’ he added, with a look of the deepest disgust, ‘runs as follows: “Dear Ophelia”--that’s the old girl’s satellite--“is very anxious to see something of real Oxford life, and hopes that you will arrange a visit with some nice young fellows to the Bodleian or the Martyrs’ Memorial.”’ ‘Pouff,’ blew the Pilot expressively, ‘what are our relations coming to; but, if it isn’t rude, who is Aunt Julia?’ ‘Julia Claudia Letitia Fanny, Dowager Lady Blitherington,’ recited Freddy, ‘her husband was Sir Hophni Jenkins of the _Weekly Eraser_, who bought a peerage by settling a Minister’s cab fares about forty years ago. But seriously, we must get the girls.’ ‘Oh yes, we must get the girls,’ echoed Squiff. ‘They’re awful sportswomen, I met them last year at the Addison Ball.’ ‘Oh yes, I remember them too,’ said Reggie. ‘They nearly ran me off my feet, and I finally settled with Maisie in the Senior Tutor’s rooms, where we sat out a considerable portion of the programme, and incidentally consumed all the strawberries left on the Reverend gentleman’s table.’