while the smaller points, such as the wording of a
notice, were eagerly and humorously debated by men of acute minds and
easy speech. It was over in half an hour. Howard strolled off with one
of the members, and then, returning to his rooms, wrote some letters,
and looked up a lecture for the next day, till the bell rang for Hall.

Beaufort was a hospitable and sociable College, and guests often
appeared at dinner. On this night Mr. Redmayne was in the chair, at the
end of a long table; eight or ten dons were present. A gong was struck;
an undergraduate came up and scrambled through a Latin Grace from a
board which he held in his hand. The tables filled rapidly with lively
young men full of talk and appetite. Howard found himself sitting next
one of his colleagues, on the other side of him being an ancient crony
of Mr. Redmayne's, the Dean of a neighbouring College. The talk was
mainly local and personal, diverging at times into politics. It was
brisk, sensible, good-natured conversation, by no means unamusing. Mr.
Redmayne was an unashamed Tory, and growled denunciations at a
democratic Government, whom he credited with every political vice under
the sun, depicting the Cabinet as men fishing in troubled seas with
philanthropic baits to catch votes. One of the younger dons, an ardent
Liberal, made a mild protest. "Ah," said Mr. Redmayne, "you are still
the prey of idealistic illusions. Politics are all based, not on
principles or programmes, but on the instinctive hatred of opponents."
There was a laugh at this. "You may laugh," said Mr. Redmayne, "but you
will find it to be true. Peace and goodwill are pretty words to play
with, but it is combativeness which helps the world along; not the
desire to be at peace, but the wish to maul your adversary!"

It was the talk of busy men who met together, not to discuss, but to
eat, and conversed only to pass the time. But it was all good-humoured
enough, and even the verbal sharpness which was employed was evidence
of much mutual confidence and esteem.

Howard thought, looking down the Hall, when the meal was in full fling,
what a picturesque, cheerful, lively affair it all was. The Hall was
lighted only by candles in heavy silver candlesticks, which flared away
all down the tables. In the dark gallery a couple of sconces burned
still and clear. The dusty rafters, the dim portraits above the
panelling, the gleam of gilded cornices were a pleasant contrast to the
lively talk,