hour to do that ... who'll drink port?"

Michael thought the scout's prophecies about the superfluity of
Lonsdale's wine were rather premature, for it seemed that everybody
intended to drink port.

"I believe this is supposed to be rather good port," said Lonsdale.

"It is jolly good," several connoisseurs echoed.

"I don't know much about it myself. But my governor's supposed to be
rather a judge. He said 'this is wasted on you and your friends, but I
haven't got any bad wine to give you.'"

Here everybody held up their glasses against the light, took another sip
and murmured their approval.

"Do you think this is a good wine, Fane?" demanded Lonsdale, thereby
drawing so much attention to Michael that he blushed to nearly as deep a
color as the port itself.

"I like it very much," Michael said.

"Do you like it, Wedderburn?" asked Lonsdale, turning to the freshman
who had sat in the armchair at the head of the second table.

"Damned good wine," pronounced Wedderburn in a voice so rich with
appreciation and so deep with judgment that he immediately established a
reputation for worldly knowledge, and from having been slightly derided
at Eton for his artistic ambitions was ever afterward respected and
consulted. Michael envied his air of authority, but trembled for
Wedderburn's position when he heard him reproach Lonsdale for his lack
of any good pictures.

"You might stick up one that can be looked at for more than two
seconds," Wedderburn said severely.

"What sort of picture?" asked Lonsdale.

"Primavera, for instance," Wedderburn suggested, and Michael's heart
beat in sympathy.

"Never heard of the horse," Lonsdale answered. "Who owned her?"

"My god," Wedderburn rumbled, "I'll take you to buy one to-morrow,
Lonny. You deserve it after that."

"Right-O!" Lonsdale cheerfully agreed. "Only I don't want my room to
look like the Academy, you know."

Wedderburn shook his head in benevolent contempt, and the conversation
was deflected from Lonsdale's artistic education by a long-legged
Wykehamist with crisp chestnut hair and a thin florid face of dimpling
smiles.

"Has anybody been into Venner's yet?" he asked.

"I have," proclaimed a dumpy Etonian whose down-curving nose hung over a
perpetually open mouth. "Marjoribanks took me in just before hall. But
he advised me not to go in by myself yet awhile."

"The second-year men don't like it," agreed the long-legged Wykehamist
with a wise air. "They sa