and
measuring his strength for what he was about to perform in the exercise
of his duty.

"Yes," said the Warden, still moving on, and now near the drawing-room
door.

Robinson made a wondrous skip, a miracle it was of service in honour of
the Warden; he flew past his master like an aged but agile Mercury and
pounced upon the drawing-room door handle. Then he threw the door open.
He waited till the Warden had advanced to a sufficient distance in the
room towards the guests who were waiting by the fireside, and then he
uttered, in his penetrating but quavering voice, the familiar and
important word--

"Dinner!"

CHAPTER XXIX

DINNER

"I am sorry I'm late," said the Warden quietly, and he looked at both
his guests. "I have been with Lady Dashwood. I must apologise, Bingham,
for her absence. I expect Mrs. Dashwood has already told you that she is
not well."

The bow with which the Warden offered his arm to May was one which
included more than the mere formal invitation to go down to dinner, it
meant a greeting after absence and an acknowledgment that she was acting
as his hostess. It was one of those ceremonial bows which men are rarely
able to make without looking pompous. He had the reputation, in Oxford,
of being one of the very few men who, in his tutorial days, could
present men for degrees with academic grace.

"I'm sorry, Bingham," he said; "I have only just returned, or I might
have secured a fourth to dinner--yes, even in war time."

May went downstairs, wondering. Wondering how it was that the worst was
so soon over, and that, after all, instead of feeling a painful pity for
the man whose arm held hers in a light grasp, she felt strangely
timorous of him.

She was profoundly thankful for the presence of Bingham, who was
following behind, cheerful and chatty, having put aside, apparently, all
recollection of the conversation of the evening before. Yes, whatever
his secret thoughts might have been, Bingham appeared to have forgotten
that there were any moonlight nights in the streets of Oxford. For this,
May blessed him.

They entered the long dining-room and, sitting at the Warden's end of
the table, formed a bright living space of light and movement. Outside
that bright space the room gradually sombred to the dark panelled walls.
The Warden, in his high-backed chair, looked the very impersonation of
Oxford. This was what struck Bingham as he glanced at his host, and the
thought suggested