So this was Oxford; more beautiful than all his dreams!  And since his examination would not begin until to-morrow, he had a whole long day to make acquaintance with her.  Half a dozen times he, had to interrupt his dressing to run and gaze out of the window, skipping back when he heard Blenkiron’s tread on the staircase.  And at breakfast again he must jump up and examine the door.  Yes, there was a second door outside—­a heavy oak-just as his father had described.  What stories had he heard about these oaks!  He was handling this one almost idolatrously when Blenkiron appeared suddenly at the head of the stairs.  Blenkiron was good enough to explain at some length how the door worked, while Taffy, who did not need his instruction in the least, blushed to the roots of his hair.

For, indeed, it was like first love, this adoration of Oxford; shamefast, shy of its own raptures; so shy, indeed, that when he put on his hat and walked out into the streets he could not pluck up courage to ask his way.  Some of the colleges he recognised from his father’s description; of one or two he discovered the names by peeping through their gateways and reading the notices pinned up by the porters’ lodges, for it never occurred to him that he was free to step inside and ramble through the quadrangles.  He wondered where the river lay, and where Magdalen, and where Christ Church.  He passed along the Turl and down Brasenose Lane; and at the foot of it, beyond the great chestnut-tree leaning over Exeter wall, the vision of noble square, the dome of the Radcliffe, and St. Mary’s spire caught his breath and held him gasping.  His feet took him by the gate of Brasenose and across the High.  On the farther pavement he halted, round-eyed, held at gaze by the beauty of the Virgin’s porch, with the creeper drooping like a veil over its twisted pillars.

High up, white pigeons wheeled round the spire or fluttered from niche to niche, and a queer fancy took him that they were the souls of the carved saints up there, talking to one another above the city’s traffic.  At length he withdrew his eyes, and reading the name “Oriel Street” on an angle of the wall above him, passed down a narrow by-lane in search of further wonders.

The clocks were striking three when, after regaining the High and lunching at a pastrycook’s, Taffy turned down into St. Aldates and recognised Tom Tower ahead of him.  The great gates were closed.  Through the open wicket he had a glimpse of green turf and an idle fountain; and while he peered in, a jolly-looking porter stepped out of the lodge for a breath of air and nodded in the friendliest manner.

“You can walk through if you want to.  Were you looking for anyone?”

“No,” said Taffy, and explained proudly, “My father used to be at Christ Church.”

The porter seemed interested.  “What name?” he asked.

“Raymond.”

“That must have been before my time.  I suppose you’ll be wanting to see the Cathedral.  That’s the door—­right opposite.”