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, the brisk coming and going, the clink and clatter below.  It was noisy indeed, but noisy as a healthy and friendly family party is noisy, with no turbulence.  Once or twice a great shout of laughter rang out from the tables and died away.  There was no sign of discipline, and yet the whole was orderly enough.  The carvers carved, the waiters hurried to and fro, the swing-doors creaked as the men hurried out.  It was a very business-like, very English scene, without any ceremony or parade, and yet undeniably stately and vivid.

The undergraduates finished their dinners with inconceivable rapidity, and the Hall was soon empty, save for the more ceremonious and deliberate party at the high table.  Presently these adjourned in procession to the Parlour, a big room, comfortably panelled, opening off the Hall, where the same party sat round the fire at little tables, sipped a glass of port, and went on to coffee and cigarettes, while the talk became more general.  Howard felt, as he had often felt before, how little attention even able and intellectual Englishmen paid to the form of their talk.  There was hardly a grammatical sentence uttered, never an elaborate one; the object was, it seemed, to get the thought uttered as quickly and unconcernedly as possible, and even the anecdotes were pared to the bone.  A clock struck nine, and Mr. Redmayne rose.  The party broke up, and Howard went off to his rooms.