ssible to say at once how
many were present because the only light was given by two gigantic wax
candles that stood on either side of the fireplace in massive
candlesticks of wrought iron.

"Mr. Fane of St. Mary's," said Hazlewood casually, and Michael was dimly
aware of multitudinous nods of greeting and an unanimous murmur of
expostulation with Hazlewood for his lateness.

"I suppose you know that this is a meeting of the Chandos, Guy?" the
chorus sighed, in a climax of exasperated patience.

"Forgot all about it," said Hazlewood. "But I suppose I can bring a
visitor."

Michael made a move to depart, feeling embarrassed by the implied
criticism of the expostulation.

"Sit down," said Hazlewood peremptorily. "If I can't bring a visitor I
resign from the Society, and the five hundred and fiftieth meeting will
have to be held somewhere else. I call upon Lord Comeragh to read us his
carefully prepared paper on The Catapult in Mediaeval Warfare."

"Don't be an affected ass, Guy," said Comeragh. "You know you yourself
are reading a paper on The Sonnet."

"Rise from the noble lord," said Hazlewood. "The first I've had in a
day's fishing. I say, Fane, don't listen to this rot."

The company settled back in anticipation of the paper, while the host
and reader searched desperately in the dim light for his manuscript.

Michael found the evening a delightful end to his day. He was
sufficiently tired by his nocturnal vigil to be able to accept the
experience without any prickings of self-consciousness and doubt as to
whether this Balliol club resented his intrusion. Hazlewood's room was
the most personal that so far he had seen in Oxford. It shadowed forth
for Michael possibilities that in the sporting atmosphere of St. Mary's
he had begun to forget. He would not have liked Tommy Grainger or
Lonsdale to have rooms like this one of Hazlewood's, nor would he have
exchanged the society of Grainger and Lonsdale for any other society in
Oxford; but he was glad to think that Hazlewood and his rooms existed.
He lay back in a deep armchair watching the candlelight flicker over the
tapestries, and the shadows of the listeners in giant size upon their
martial and courtly populations. He heard in half-a-dream the level
voice of Hazlewood enunciating his theories in graceful singing
sentences, and the occasional fizz of a replenished glass. The tobacco
smoke grew thicker and thicker, curling in spirals about the emaciated
lovelines