“Oh, I don’t know,” said Michael. “But vaguely I would say that Oxford would cure them of being surprised by themselves or of showing surprise at anybody else. Marcus Aurelius said what I’m trying to say much better than I ever can. Also they will gain a sense of humor, or rather they will ripen whatever sense they already possess. And they’ll have a sense of continuity, too, and perhaps—but of course this will depend very much on their dons—perhaps they’ll take as much interest in the world as in Australia.” “Why will that depend on their dons?” challenged Mr. Ambrose. “Oh, well, you know,” explained Michael apologetically, “dons very often haven’t much capacity for inquisitiveness. They get frightened very easily, don’t they?” “Very true, very true,” said the Warden. “But, my dear Fane, your optimism and your pessimism are both quixotic, immensely quixotic.” Later on in the quad when the undergraduate members of the dinner party discussed the evening, Maurice rallied Michael on his conversation. “If you can talk your theories, why can’t you write them?” he complained. “Because they’d be almost indecently diaphanous,” said Michael. “Good old Fane!” said Grainger. “But, I say, you are an extraordinary chap, you know.” “He did it for me,” said Lonsdale. “Pumpkin-head would have burst, if I’d let out I didn’t know what part of the jolly old world my governor used to run.” CHAPTER X STELLA IN OXFORD Alan, when he met Michael at Paddington, was a great deal more cheerful than when they had gone up together for the previous term. He had managed to achieve a second class in Moderations, and he had now in view a term of cricket whose energy might fortunately be crowned with a blue. Far enough away now seemed Greats and not very alarming Plato and Aristotle at these first tentative encounters. Michael dined with Alan at Christ Church after the Seniors’ match, in which his host had secured in the second innings four wickets at a reasonable price. Alan casually nodded to one or two fellow hosts at the guest table, but did not offer to introduce Michael. All down the hall, men were coming in to dinner and going out of dinner as unconcernedly as if it had been the dining-saloon of a large hotel. “Who is that man just sitting down?” Michael would ask. “I don’t know,” Alan would reply, and in his tone would somehow rest the implication that Michael should know better than to expect him to be aware of each individual in this very much subdivided college. “Did you hear the hockey push broke the windows of the socker push in Peck?” asked one of the Christ Church hosts. “No, really?” answered Alan indifferently. After hall as they walked back to Meadows’, Michael tried to point out to him that the St. Mary’s method of dining in hall was superior to that of the House. “The dinner itself is better,” Alan admitted. “But I hate your system of all getting up from table at the same time. It’s like school.”