“The luxury of modern times,” Mr. Stewart was saying, “is disgusting,--Chartreuse, please--simply disgusting. What business have men to clothe their floors in fabrics from Persia, their walls in other fabrics from Cairo and Algiers, or stamped leather, and paintings by Turner and Reynolds and, and Orchardson, their lamp-shades in lace and Liberty fabrics--Lace and Liberty sounds like a party catch-word--and leave their minds naked and unashamed? I myself aim at a studious simplicity--Thank you, I have brought my own cigarettes. Won’t you have one? They are straight from Constantinople--a studious simplicity. I live at Cambridge, while my natural sphere is London and Paris. I get up at seven, while nature bids me stay in bed till ten. I--” Mr. Longridge could not bear it any longer. He sprang out of his chair as a cuckoo flies out of a cuckoo clock on the stroke of the hour, and adjusted his spectacles. “Well, take the case of a man who, say, lived at Oxford. Supposing--or well, take another case--” Mr. Stewart took advantage of a momentary pause to continue. “Yes, of course, very interesting,” he said. “A delightful town, Oxford. A shadow of the romance of mediævalism still lingers about its grey streets, which is quite absent from the new red-brick buildings of St. John’s College, Cambridge. I remember walking there one morning with dear George Meredith, and your mention of Oxford recalled to me what he said. Poor dear fellow! He is the most lucid of men, but as soon as he puts pen to paper he is like an elephant that is lost in a jungle, and goes trumpeting and trampling along through wreaths and tangled festoons of an exotic style. Lord Granchester was staying there at the time--Sir Reginald Bristow he was then--” “I had the pleasure of speaking to his son just before Hall,” remarked Mr. Stewart in professional accents. “Reggie, is dear Reggie up here? How delightful! I remember him six or seven years ago. He was like one of Raphael’s angels.” “What-was-it-that-George-Meredith-said?” asked the incoherent man, all in one word. “One of Raphael’s angels,” pursued Mr. Stewart, taking not the slightest notice. “A face like an opening flower.” “The flower has a stem six feet high now,” remarked Mr. Collins. “Dear Reggie! And--and is he as fascinating as ever?” Mr. Collins laughed. “I have not known him long, so I cannot say how fascinating he is capable of being. And as a rule Deans and undergraduates don’t put out their full power of fascination in dealing with each other.” “But whose fault is that?” said Mr. Stewart in a slow unctuous voice. “Surely we ought to be brothers, dear elder brothers to the undergraduates. I remember--” Mr. Collins, who was obviously sceptical about George Meredith’s remark, and hoped that Stewart was going back to it, brightened up and interrogated, “Yes?” in an intelligent manner.