“But you’re quite all right now, Nigel?” inquired Guy. “You could almost send a testimonial?” “Oh, rather,” murmured Nigel, with tender assurance lighting up his great, innocent eyes. “I expect, you know, dinner’s ready.” Then he plunged his arm through Guy’s, and led the way toward the private dining-room he had actually not forgotten to command. Dinner, owing to Avery’s determined steering of the conversation, was eaten to the accompaniment of undiluted shop. Never for a moment was any topic allowed to oust The Oxford Looking-Glass from discussion. Even Guy was powerless against the editor intoxicated by ambition’s fulfillment. Maurice sat in triumphant headship with only Mowbray’s vacant place to qualify very slightly the completeness of his satisfaction. He hoped they all liked his scheme of inviting well-known, even celebrated, old Oxford men to contribute from time to time. He flattered himself they would esteem the honor vouchsafed to them. He disclaimed the wish to monopolize the paper’s criticism and nobly invited Townsend to put in their places a series of contemporary dramatists. He congratulated Guy upon his satiric article and assured him of his great gifts. He reproached Michael for having written nothing, and vowed that many of the books for which he had already sent a printed demand to their publishers must in the December issue be reviewed by Michael. He arranged with Nigel Stewart and Wedderburn at least a dozen prospective campaigns to harry advertisers into unwilling publicity. At nine-o’clock, the staff of The Oxford Looking-Glass, reflecting now a very roseate world, marched across the High to wind up the evening in Stewart’s digs. On the threshold the host paused in sudden dismay. “Good lord, I quite forgot. There’s a meeting of the De Rebus Ecclesiasticis in my digs to-night. They’ll all be there; what shall I do?” “You can’t possibly go,” declared everybody. “Mrs. Arbour,” Nigel called out, hurriedly dipping into the landlady’s quarters. “Mrs. Arbour.” Mrs. Arbour assured him comfortably of her existence as she emerged to confer with him in the passage. “There may be one or two men waiting in my rooms. Will you put out syphons and whisky and explain that I shan’t be coming.” “Any reason to give, sir?” asked Mrs. Arbour. The recalcitrant shook his seraphic head. “No, sir,” said Mrs. Arbour cheerfully, “quite so. Just say you’re not coming? Yes, sir. Oh, they’ll make themselves at home without you, I’ll be bound. It’s not likely to be a very noisy party, is it, sir?” “Oh, no. It’s the De Rebus Ecclesiasticis, Mrs. Arbour.” “I see, sir. Foreigners. I’ll look after them.”