Great shouts of applause roared through the window, and the bald-headed old gentleman listening outside smiled an indulgent smile. But as the speaker went on, denouncing more definitely the Radical agitators, and even Woolley, by name, the smile faded from the Sub-Warden's face. It must have been a Temperance meeting; and yet--and yet--"Temperance" had been printed on the poster--but hadn't there been something pinned over that, something which he hadn't read? The Sub-Warden looked about. He could see one or two towers against the faint sky, and near each College tower was a Common Room, and in each Common Room the Fellows sat after dinner, telling stories. But suppose he had really spoken at a meeting which--which wasn't a Temperance meeting, and the Bursar should hear of it! The Sub-Warden lurked about in the quadrangle, holding his hat in his hand, and spying out for Woolley. He came at last. "Good evening, Woolley," he said, "you have come from the Temperance meeting?" "Oh, sir, it wasn't a Temperance meeting, that was the night before!" "Oh!" said the Sub-Warden, coldly. "No, sir, it was a different meeting; in fact, the Radical League. I was so afraid--" "What! Then it was very wrong of you, Woolley, to give me to understand it was a Temperance meeting." "Oh, please, sir--" "Don't try to explain it, it admits of no explanation," the Sub-Warden said severely. "I should be sorry to get you into trouble, Woolley, but if this should get to be known, I couldn't answer for the consequences. I shall take no steps personally to make it known, and I should advise you to mention it to no one--to no one at all, do you understand? It's--it's nothing to be proud of." He walked indignantly away; and, indeed, for the moment his words had made him feel really indignant. But when, on turning a corner, he glanced back and saw the honest Woolley still standing there, he hesitated. Should he return and explain? He took a step back, then he thought of the Bursar, and, with a sudden, sinking fear he went quickly to his room. _Idyll_ I. "I wish they hadn't asked me," said Matthew Craik, the Logic tutor of St. Mary's, as he looked down at the party in the old secluded College garden. "I wonder," he added, glancing at the reflection of his red tie in the glass, his new tie, his black coat, his young and scholarly face, "I wonder--but no, it isn't too red; they wear them red," he continued, with attempted cheerfulness. "No--," but hearing the laughter of ladies below his window, he scuttled back hastily.