After Lonsdale’s pictures Michael surveyed Lonsdale’s books, the brilliantly red volumes of Jorrocks, the two or three odd volumes of the Badminton library, and the school books tattered and ink-splashed. More interesting than such a library were the glossy new briars, the virgin meerschaum, the patent smoking-tables and another table evidently designed to make drinking easy, but by reason of the complexity of its machinery actually more likely to discourage one forever from refreshment. The rest of the space, apart from the furniture bequeathed by the noisy Templeton-Collins when he moved to larger rooms above, was crowded with the freshmen whom after hall Lonsdale had so hastily gathered together unassorted. “I ordered coffee for sixteen,” announced the host. “I thought it would be quicker than making it in a new machine that my sister gave me. It just makes enough for three, and the only time I tried, it took about an hour to do that ... who’ll drink port?” Michael thought the scout’s prophecies about the superfluity of Lonsdale’s wine were rather premature, for it seemed that everybody intended to drink port. “I believe this is supposed to be rather good port,” said Lonsdale. “It is jolly good,” several connoisseurs echoed. “I don’t know much about it myself. But my governor’s supposed to be rather a judge. He said ‘this is wasted on you and your friends, but I haven’t got any bad wine to give you.’” Here everybody held up their glasses against the light, took another sip and murmured their approval. “Do you think this is a good wine, Fane?” demanded Lonsdale, thereby drawing so much attention to Michael that he blushed to nearly as deep a color as the port itself. “I like it very much,” Michael said. “Do you like it, Wedderburn?” asked Lonsdale, turning to the freshman who had sat in the armchair at the head of the second table. “Damned good wine,” pronounced Wedderburn in a voice so rich with appreciation and so deep with judgment that he immediately established a reputation for worldly knowledge, and from having been slightly derided at Eton for his artistic ambitions was ever afterward respected and consulted. Michael envied his air of authority, but trembled for Wedderburn’s position when he heard him reproach Lonsdale for his lack of any good pictures. “You might stick up one that can be looked at for more than two seconds,” Wedderburn said severely. “What sort of picture?” asked Lonsdale. “Primavera, for instance,” Wedderburn suggested, and Michael’s heart beat in sympathy. “Never heard of the horse,” Lonsdale answered. “Who owned her?” “My god,” Wedderburn rumbled, “I’ll take you to buy one to-morrow, Lonny. You deserve it after that.” “Right-O!” Lonsdale cheerfully agreed. “Only I don’t want my room to look like the Academy, you know.”