There was John Jones too, of Keble, with his huge giglamp spectacles and fast-thinning hair, famed among the P. and H.’ers as a raconteur, who, if carefully primed, could sometimes be induced to tell his glorious story of the thurifer that simply _would_ not light.… And Jones it was who, during these amazing weeks, became Gaveston’s especial friend. True, Gav’s Etonian blood never took altogether kindly to John’s somewhat provincial manners, but erudition, he reflected, is thicker than etiquette, and the close bonds of common pieties united them. Together they would wander off to unvernacular and illegal services in clandestine seminaries and remote rebellious rectories. Together they would count up the ceremonial points of every church in the overchurched city; but where John could find but seven, Gaveston was seldom content with less than nine. Together too they addressed their every activity to saints that no other Anglicans had ever heard of, and St. Domenico Theotocopuli and the Bienheureux Stanislas Beulemans were the familiar patrons of their collegiate activities; whilst buying flowers, they invoked St. Rose of Lima, and sitting down to a meal they called upon St. Francis of Borgia to protect them from poisoning; red letter days were given in their Kalendar to St. Veep and St. Deusdedit, and for help in composing their tutorial essays they would put up many a candle to St. John of Beverley; against the danger of madness they called in friendly unison upon Santa Maria Maddalena degli Pazzi, and mayhap it was their gladsome veneration of King Charles (the First and Martyr) that first turned Gaveston’s mind toward the political career which a twelvemonth later was to startle all Oxford.… But somehow the P. and H.’ers did not all seem to take kindly to the æsthetic side of Gaveston’s remarkable personality. For a ffoulis it was easy to see life steadily and see it whole, but for a Minns or a Jones there seemed to be a curious difficulty in reconciling _Dorian Gray_ with _The Ritual Reason Why_. It was a bagatelle for Gaveston to haste across the road from a protracted tea-party at Pembroke with the leading Oxford authority on dalmatics to a gay picnic supper at Christ Church, where dancing in pyjama costume would be varied with caviare and liqueurs. Each party would rightly acclaim him as the most enthusiastic and daring spirit present. “He’s superbly High,” the one host would say as he left. “He’s so gloriously low, my dears,” the next would proudly whisper. And both loved him. But an end had to come. As term drew to its close, Gaveston saw that he had extracted all that either set could give him, and he planned a glorious symposium of both of his sets for the last day of term. John Jones warned him, in honest manly fashion, that he was attempting the impossible. But Gaveston’s mind was made up.