But was it safe thus to give free rein to his luxuriant imaginings? Might he not be too utterly original, too bizarre, thus wandering down paths of uncharted beauty until perhaps he find himself bemused and bemazed, lost to the kindly familiar realms of real life? He might, he reflected, he might. And he remembered how his mother had only taught him the simpler fairy tales, lest the magic lore should pervade his amazing imagination _too_ fully, and make of his very precocity a snare and a gin. And as he paced the crescent curve of Regent Street in these musings, he reached the Café Régale. * * * * * The Café Régale! To this door, of all doors, had Providence guided him that evening. Here surely was the answer that he sought from the mighty Sphinx! Here, if anywhere, might he find that perfect and subtle synthesis of Oxford and London, of London and Oxford! Of the Café and its inhabitants, and of its paramount significance in the life of our time, Gaveston had already heard much, and read more. Monty Wytham, most _rusé_ of the Mongoons, had lowered his voice in speaking of it one night in far-away Wallace. Bold must the spirit be, and heedless of bourgeois condemnation, to actually affront so perilous a haunt after dark! But Gaveston, though alone, was undismayed. Undeceived, true Londoner that he was, by the golden word NICHOLS emblazoned above the portal, he gave a determined push to the fateful revolving door. As its well-oiled sweep threw him into the fantastical lobby within, he reflected how often these very panels had revolved before the push of hands famous the world over for their cunning over marble and bronze, for the eloquent pens they wielded, for their intricate mastery of brush and easel, and of hands celebrated alas! only for their own manicured and expensive selves. How often indeed! But now it had known a new revolution! And he laughed at the unspoken quip as he walked towards the smoke-room. Gaveston pushed open the innermost swing-door, fully realizing that this was perhaps his most crucial entry since that first evening in Mongo’s room, and for a moment he stood there, not indeed in any uncertainty, but in conscious appraisal of the spectacle that met his eyes. A spectacle indeed!