Harriet started to speak, but the young man turned to her. “Who,” he demanded loudly, “is this effeminate bounder?”

“I have been accused of many things,” said Wimsey, interested, “but the charge of effeminacy is new to me. Do you mind explaining yourself?”

“I don’t like your song,” said the young man, rocking slightly on his feet, “and I don’t like your voice, and I don’t like your tom-fool eyeglass.”

“Steady on, Reggie,” said his friend.

“You’re annoying this lady,” persisted the young man. “You’re making her conspicuous. Get out!”

“Good God!” said Wimsey, turning to Harriet. “Is this by any chance Mr. Jones of Jesus?”

“Who are you calling a bloody Welshman?” snarled the young man, much exasperated. “My name’s Pomfret.”

“Mine’s Wimsey,” said Peter. “Quite as ancient though less euphonious. Come on, son, don’t be an ass. You mustn’t behave like this to senior members and before ladies.”

“Senior member be damned!” cried Mr. Pomfret, to whom this unfortunate phrase conveyed only too much. “Do you think I’m going to be sneered at by you? Stand up, blast you! why can’t you stand up for yourself?”

“First,” replied Peter, mildly, “because I’m twenty years older than you are. Secondly, because you’re six inches taller than I am. And thirdly, because I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Then,” said Mr. Pomfret, “take that, you sitting rabbit!”

He launched an impetuous blow at Peter’s head, and found himself held by the wrist in an iron grip.

“If you don’t keep quiet,” said his lordship, “you’ll break something. Here, you, sir. Take your effervescent friend home, can’t you? How the devil does he come to be drunk at this time of the day?”

The friend offered a confused explanation about a lunch party and subsequent cocktail binge. Peter shook his head. “One damn gin after another,” he said, sadly. “Now, sir. You had better apologize to the lady and beetle off.”

Mr. Pomfret, much subdued and tending to become lachrymose, muttered that he was sorry to have made a row. “But why did you make fun of me with that?” he asked Harriet, reproachfully.

“I didn’t, Mr. Pomfret. You’re quite mistaken.”

“Damn your senior members!” said Mr. Pomfret.

“Now, don’t begin all over again,” urged Peter, kindly. He got up, his eyes about on a level with Mr. Pomfret’s chin. “If you want to continue the discussion, you’ll find me at the Mitre in the morning. This way out.”

“Come on, Reggie,” said the friend.

The dealer, who had returned to his packing after assuring himself that it would not be necessary to send for the police or the proctors, leapt helpfully to open the door, and said “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” as though nothing out of the way had happened.

“I’m damned if I’ll be sneered at,” said Mr. Pomfret, endeavoring to stage a come-back on the doorstep.

“Of course not, old boy,” said his friend. “Nobody’s sneering at you. Come on! You’ve had quite enough fun for one afternoon.” The door shut them out.

“Well, well!” said Peter.

“Young gentlemen will be lively,” said the dealer. “I’m afraid it’s a bit bulky, sir. I’ve put the board up separate.”

“Stick ’em in the car,” said Peter. “They’ll be all right.”

This was done; and the dealer, glad enough to get his shop cleared, began to put up his shutters, as it was now long past closing-time.

“I apologize for my young friend,” said Harriet.

“He seems to have taken it hard. What on earth was there so infuriating about my being a senior?”

“Oh, poor lamb! He thought I’d been telling you about him and me and the proctor. I suppose I had better tell you now.”

Peter listened and laughed a little ruefully.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “That kind of thing hurts like hell when you’re his age. I’d better send him a note and set that right. I say!”

“What?”

“We never had that beer. Come round and have one with me at the Mitre, and we’ll concoct a salve for wounded feelings.”

With two half-pint tankards on the table before them, Peter produced his epistle.

The Mitre Hotel,

Oxford

TO REGINALD POMFRET, ESQ.

Sir,

I am given to understand by Miss Vane that in the course of our conversation this afternoon I unhappily made use of an expression which might have been misconstrued as a reference to your private affairs. Permit me to assure you that the words were uttered in complete ignorance, and that nothing could have been farther from my intentions than to make any such offensive allusion. While deprecating very strongly the behaviour you thought fit to use, I desire to express my sincere regret for any pain I may have inadvertently caused you, and beg to remain,

Your obedient servant,

PETER DEATH BREDON WIMSEY

“Is that pompous enough?”

“Beautiful,” said Harriet. “Scarcely a word under three syllables and all the names you’ve got. What your nephew calls ‘Uncle Peter at his stuffiest.’ All it wants is the crest and sealing-wax. Why not write the child a nice, friendly note?”

“He doesn’t want friendliness,” said his lordship, grinning. “He wants satisfaction.” He rang the bell and sent the waiter for Bunter and the sealing-wax. “You’re right about the beneficial effects of a red seal-he’ll think it’s a challenge. Bunter, bring me my seal ring. Come to think of it, that’s an idea. Shall I offer him the choice of swords or pistols on Port Meadow at daybreak?”

“I think it’s time you grew up,” said Harriet.

“Is it?” said Peter, addressing the envelope. “I’ve never challenged anybody. It would be fun. I’ve been challenged three times and fought twice; the third time the police butted in. I’m afraid that was because my opponent didn’t fancy my choice of weapon… Thanks, Bunter… A bullet, you see, may go anywhere, but steel’s almost bound to go somewhere.”

“Peter,” said Harriet, looking gravely at him, “I believe you’re showing off.”

“I believe I am,” said he, setting the heavy ring accurately down upon the wax. “Every cock will crow upon his own dung-hill.” His grin was half petulant, half deprecating. “I hate being loomed over by gigantic undergraduates and made to feel my age.”

20

It is said that love and a cough cannot be hid. Nor is it easy to hide two-and-thirty outsize ivory chessmen; unless one is so inhuman as to leave them swaddled in their mummy clothes of wadding and entombed within the six sides of a wooden sarcophagus. What is the use of acquiring one’s heart’s desire if one cannot handle and gloat over it, show it to one’s friends and gather an anthology of envy and admiration? Whatever awkward deductions might be drawn about the giver-and, after all, was that anybody’s business?-Harriet knew that she must needs display the gift or burst in solitary ecstasy.

Accordingly, she put a bold face on it, marched her forces openly into the Senior Common Room after Hall, and deployed them upon the table, with the eager assistance of the dons.

“But where are you going to keep them?” asked the Dean, when everybody had sufficiently exclaimed over the fineness of the carving, and had taken her turn at twisting and examining the nests of concentric globes. “You can’t just leave them in the box. Look at those fragile little spears and things and the royal head-dresses. They ought to be put in a glass case.”

“I know,” said Harriet. “It’s just like me to want something completely impracticable. I shall have to wrap them all up again.”