omebody like Nigel Stewart was admitted, it was
scrupulously ascertained beforehand that his presence would evoke
affectionate amusement rather than the chill surprise with which the
Grid would have greeted the entrance of someone who, however superior to
the dead level of undergraduate life, lacked yet the indefinable
justification for his humors.

Michael on the evening of the Looking-Glass dinner went up the narrow
stairs of the club in an aroma of pleasant anticipation, which was not
even momentarily dispersed by the sudden occurrence of the fact that he
had forgotten to take his name off hall, and must therefore pay two
shillings and fourpence to the college for a dinner he would not eat. In
the Strangers' Room were waiting the typical guests of the typical
members. Here and there nods were exchanged, but the general atmosphere
was one of serious expectancy. In the distance the rattle of crockery
told of dinners already in progress. Vernon Townsend came in soon after
Michael, and as Townsend was a member, Michael lost that trifling
malaise of waiting in a club's guest-room which the undergraduate might
conceal more admirably than any other class of man, but nevertheless
felt acutely.

"Not here yet, I suppose," said Townsend.

It was unnecessary to mention a name. Nigel Stewart's habits were
proverbial.

"Read my article?" asked Townsend.

"Splendid," Michael murmured.

"It's going to get me the Librarianship of the Union," Townsend
earnestly assured Michael.

Michael was about to congratulate the sanguine author without disclosing
his ignorance of the article's inside, when Bill Mowbray rushed
breathlessly into the room. Everybody observed his dramatic entrance,
whereupon he turned round and rushed out again, pausing only for one
moment to exclaim in the doorway:

"Good god, that fool will never remember!"

"See that?" asked Townsend darkly, as the Tory Democrat vanished.

Michael admitted that he undoubtedly had.

"Bill Mowbray has become a poseur," Townsend declared. "Or else he knows
his ridiculous article on Toryism was too badly stashed by mine," he
added.

"We shan't see him again to-night," Michael prophesied.

Townsend shrugged his shoulders.

"We shall, if he can make another effective entrance," he said a little
bitterly.

Maurice Avery and Wedderburn arrived together. The combination of having
just been elected to the Grid and the birth of the new paper had given
Maurice such an eff