Meanwhile Arnold Denison and Jane Dawn and Eileen Le Moine all wrote to say they would come on the thirty-first, which they proceeded to do. They came by three different trains, and Eddy spent the afternoon meeting them, instead of skating with the Bellairs. First Arnold came, from Cambridge, and twenty minutes later Jane, from Oxford, without her bag, which she had mislaid at Rugby. Meanwhile Eddy got a long telegram from Eileen to the effect that she had missed her train and was coming by the next. He took Jane and Arnold home to tea. Daphne was still skating. The Dean and his wife were always charming to guests. The Dean talked Cambridge to Arnold. He had been up with Professor Denison, and many other people, and had always kept in touch with Cambridge, as he remarked. Sometimes, while a canon of Ely, he had preached the University Sermon. He did not wholly approve of the social and theological, or non-theological, outlook of Professor Denison and his family; but still, the Denisons were able and interesting and respect-worthy people, if cranky. Arnold the Dean suspected of being very cranky indeed; not the friend he would have chosen for Eddy in the improbable hypothesis of his having had the selection of Eddy’s friends. Certainly not the person he would have chosen for Eddy to share rooms with, as was now their plan. But nothing of this appeared in his courteous, if not very effusive, manner to his guest. To Jane he talked about her father, a distinguished Oxford scholar, and meanwhile eyed her a little curiously, wondering why she looked somehow different from the girls he was used to. His wife could have told him it was because she had on a grey-blue dress, rather beautifully embroidered on the yoke and cuffs, instead of a shirt and coat and skirt. She was not surprised, being one of those people whose rather limited experience has taught them that artists are often like that. She talked to Jane about Welchester, and the Cathedral, and its windows, some of which were good. Jane, with her small sweet voice and pretty manners and charming, friendly smile, was bound to make a pleasant impression on anybody not too greatly prejudiced by the grey-blue dress. And Mrs. Oliver was artistic enough to see that the dress suited her, though she herself preferred that girls should not make themselves look like early Italian pictures of St. Ursula. It might be all right in Oxford or Cambridge (one understands that this style is still, though with decreasing frequency, occasionally to be met with in our older Universities), or no doubt, at Letchworth and the Hampstead Garden City, and possibly beyond Blackfriars Bridge (Mrs. Oliver was vague as to this, not knowing that part of London well); but in Welchester, a midland cathedral country town, it was unsuitable, and not done. Mrs. Oliver wondered whether Eddy didn’t mind, but he didn’t seem to. Eddy had never minded the things most boys mind in those ways; he had never, when at school, betrayed the