“My name’s Lonsdale. I think we’re on the same staircase—so’s Mackintosh. It’s a pity he’s an Harrovian, but I promised my mother I’d look him up.” Then, after surveying the table, Lonsdale went on in a confidential undertone: “I don’t mind telling you that the Etonians up here are a pretty poor lot. There are two chaps from my house who are not so bad—in fact rather good eggs—but the rest! Well, look at that ass Wedderburn. He’s typical.” “I think he looks rather a good sort,” said Michael. “My dear chap, he was absolutely barred. M’ tutor used to like him, but really—well—I don’t mind telling you, he’s really an æsthete.” With this shocked condemnation, Lonsdale turned to his other neighbor and said in his jerky and somewhat mincing voice that was perfectly audible to Michael: “I say, Tommy, this man on my right isn’t half bad. I don’t know where he comes from, His name’s Fane.” “He’s from St. James’.” “Where on earth’s that?” “London.” “Why, I thought it was a kind of charity school,” said Lonsdale. Then he turned to Michael again: “I say, are you really from St. James’?” Michael replied coldly that he was. “I say, come and have coffee with me after hall. One or two O. E.’s are coming in, but you won’t mind?” “Why, do you want to find out something about St. James’?” demanded Michael, frowning. “Oh, I say, don’t be ratty. It’s that ass Tommy. He always talks at the top of his voice.” Lonsdale, as he spoke, looked so charmingly apologetic and displayed such accomplished sang-froid that Michael forgave him immediately and promised to come to coffee. “Good egg!” Lonsdale exclaimed with the satisfaction of having smoothed over an awkward place. “I say,” he offered, “if you’d like to meet Wedderburn, I’ll ask him, too. He seems to have improved since he’s been up at the Varsity. Don’t you think that fat man Wedderburn has improved, Tommy?” Tommy nodded. “One day’s done him no end of good.” “I say,” Lonsdale offered, “you haven’t met Fane. Mr. Fane—Mr. Grainger. I was just saying to Fane that the Etonians are a rotten lot this term.” “One or two are all right,” Grainger admitted with evident reluctance. “Well, perhaps two,” Lonsdale agreed. “This dinner isn’t bad, what?” By this time the conversation at the table had become more general, and Michael gradually realized that some of the alarm he had felt himself had certainly been felt by his companions. Now at any rate there was a perceptible relaxation of tension. Still the conversation was only general in so much as that whenever anybody spoke, the rest of the table listened. The moment the flow of his information dried up, somebody else began pumping forth instruction. These slightly nervous little lectures were delivered without any claim to authority and they came up prefaced by the third person of legendary narrative. “They say we shall all have to interview the Warden to-morrow.”