clubs were still debating the existence of ghosts: the essay
clubs were still listening to papers that took them along the by-ways of
archaeology or sport. Throughout the university the old habit of mind
persisted apparently. The New College manner that London journalists
miscalled the Oxford manner still prevailed in the discussion of
intellectual subjects. In Balliol when any remark trembled on the edge
of a generalization, somebody in a corner would protest, "Oh, shut up,
fish-face!" and the conversation at once veered sharply back to golf or
scandal, while the intellectual kitten who had been playing with his
mental tail would be suddenly conscious of himself or his dignity and
sit still. In Exeter the members of the Literary Society were still
called the Bloody Lits. Nothing anywhere seemed as yet to hint that the
traditional flippancy of Oxford which was merely an extension of the
public-school spirit was in danger of dying out. Oxford was still the
apotheosis of the amateur. It was still surprising when the Head of a
House or a don or an undergraduate achieved anything in a manner that
did not savor of happy chance. It was still natural to regard Cambridge
as a provincial university, and to take pleasure in shocking the earnest
young Cambridge man with the metropolitan humors and airy self-assurance
of Oxford.

Yet The Oxford Looking-Glass reflected another spirit which Michael
could not account for and the presence of which he vaguely resented.

"The O.L.G. is getting very priggish and serious and rather dull," he
complained to Maurice.

"Not half so dull as it would be if I depended entirely on casual
contributions," replied the editor. "I don't seem to get anything but
earnestness."

"Oxford is becoming the home of living causes," sighed Michael. "That's
a depressing thought. Do you really think these Rhodes Scholars from
America and Australia and Germany are going to affect us?"

"I don't know," Maurice said. "But everybody seems keen to speculate on
the result."

"Why don't you take up a strong line of patronage? Why don't you
threaten these pug-nosed invaders with the thunders of the past?"
Michael demanded fiercely.

"Would it be popular?" asked Maurice. "Personally of course I don't care
one way or the other, but I don't want to let the O.L.G. in for a lot of
criticism."

"You really ought to be a wonderful editor," said Michael. "You're so
essentially the servant of the public."

"Well, with