earances. Michael waited long enough to see his name fairly entered
in the book, yawned resentfully at the Dean, and started back on the
taciturn journey that must culminate in the completion of his toilet.
Crossing the gravel space between Cloisters and Cuther's worldly quad,
he met Maurice Avery dressed finally for the day at one minute past
eight o'clock. Such a phenomenon provoked him into speech.

"What on earth.... Are you going to London?" he gasped.

"Rather not. I'm going out to buy a copy of the O.L.G."

Michael shook his head, sighed compassionately, and passed on. Twenty
minutes later in Common Room he was contemplating distastefully the
kedgeree which with a more hopeful appetite he had ordered on the
evening before, when Maurice planked down beside his place the first
number of The Oxford Looking-Glass.

"There's a misprint on page thirty-seven, line six. It ought to be 'yet'
not 'but.' Otherwise I think it's a success. Do you mind reading my
slashing attack on the policy of the Oxford theater? Or perhaps you'd
better begin at the beginning and go right through the whole paper and
give me your absolutely frank opinion of it as a whole. Just tell me
candidly if you think my Reflections are too individual. I want the
effect to be more----"

"Maurice," Michael interrupted, "do you like kedgeree?"

"Yes, very much," Maurice answered absently. Then he plunged on again.
"Also don't forget to tell me if you think that Guy's skit is too
clever. And if you find any misprints I haven't noticed, mark them down.
We can't alter them now, of course, but I'll speak to the compositor
myself. You like the color? I wonder whether it wouldn't have been
better to have had dark blue after all. Still----"

"Well, if you like kedgeree," Michael interrupted again, "do you like it
as much in the morning as you thought you were going to like it the
night before?"

"Oh, how the dickens do I know?" exclaimed Maurice fretfully.

"Well, will you just eat my breakfast and let me know if you think I
ought to have ordered eggs and bacon last night?"

"Aren't you keen on the success of this paper?" Maurice demanded.

"I'll tell you later on," Michael offered. "We'll lunch together quietly
in my rooms, and the little mulled claret we shall drink to keep out
this filthy fog will also enormously conduce to the amiableness of my
judgment."

"And you won't come out with me and Nigel Stewart to watch people
buying copies on their w