On the 12th of October John returned to
Oxford.

CHAPTER VI

My brother told me afterwards that more than once during the summer
vacation he had seriously considered with himself the propriety of
changing his rooms at Magdalen Hall. He had thought that it might thus
be possible for him to get rid at once of the memory of the apparition,
and of the fear of any reappearance of it. He could either have moved
into another set of rooms in the Hall itself, or else gone into lodgings
in the town--a usual proceeding, I am told, for gentlemen near the end
of their course at Oxford. Would to God that he had indeed done so! but
with the supineness which has, I fear, my dear Edward, been too
frequently a characteristic of our family, he shrank from the trouble
such a course would involve, and the opening of the autumn term found
him still in his old rooms. You will forgive me for entering here on a
very brief description of your father's sitting-room. It is, I think,
necessary for the proper understanding of the incidents that follow. It
was not a large room, though probably the finest in the small buildings
of Magdalen Hall, and panelled from floor to ceiling with oak which
successive generations had obscured by numerous coats of paint. On one
side were two windows having an aspect on to New College Lane, and
fitted with deep cushioned seats in the recesses. Outside these windows
there were boxes of flowers, the brightness of which formed in the
summer term a pretty contrast to the grey and crumbling stone, and
afforded pleasure at once to the inmate and to passers-by. Along nearly
the whole length of the wall opposite to the windows, some tenant in
years long past had had mahogany book-shelves placed, reaching to a
height of perhaps five feet from the floor. They were handsomely made
in the style of the eighteenth century and pleased my brother's taste.
He had always exhibited a partiality for books, and the fine library at
Worth Maltravers had no doubt contributed to foster his tastes in that
direction. At the time of which I write he had formed a small collection
for himself at Oxford, paying particular attention to the bindings, and
acquiring many excellent specimens of that art, principally I think,
from Messrs. Payne & Foss, the celebrated London booksellers.

Towards the end of the autumn term, having occasion one cold day to take
down a volume of Plato from its shelf, he found to his surprise that the
book was q