Dr. Mittyford grudgingly took Mr. Wrenn about, to teach him what not to enjoy.  He pointed at Shelley’s rooms as at a certificated angel’s feather, but Mr. Wrenn writhingly admitted that he had never heard of Shelley, whose name he confused with Max O’Rell’s, which Dr. Mittyford deemed an error.  Then, Pater’s window.  The doctor shrugged.  Oh well, what could you expect of the proletariat!  Swinging his stick aloofly, he stalked to the Bodleian and vouchsafed, “That, sir, is the AEschylus Shelley had in his pocket when he was drowned.”

Though he heard with sincere regret the news that his new idol was drowned, Mr. Wrenn found that AEschylus left him cold.  It seemed to be printed in a foreign language.  But perhaps it was merely a very old book.

Standing before a case in which was an exquisite book in a queer wrigglesome language, bearing the legend that from this volume Fitzgerald had translated the Rubaiyat, Dr. Mittyford waved his hand and looked for thanks.

“Pretty book,” said Mr. Wrenn.

“And did you note who used it?”

“Uh—­yes.”  He hastily glanced at the placard.  “Mr. Fitzgerald.  Say, I think I read some of that Rubaiyat.  It was something about a Persian kitten—­I don’t remember exactly.”

Dr. Mittyford walked bitterly to the other end of the room.

About eight in the evening Mr. Wrenn’s landlady knocked with, “There’s a gentleman below to see you, sir.”

“Me?” blurted Mr. Wrenn.

He galloped down-stairs, panting to himself that Morton had at last found him.  He peered out and was overwhelmed by a motor-car, with Dr. Mittyford waiting in awesome fur coat, goggles, and gauntlets, centered in the car-lamplight that loomed in the shivery evening fog.

“Gee! just like a hero in a novel!” reflected Mr. Wrenn.

“Get on your things,” said the pedagogue.  “I’m going to give you the time of your life.”

Mr. Wrenn obediently went up and put on his cap.  He was excited, yet frightened and resentful at being “dragged into all this highbrow business” which he had resolutely been putting away the past two hours.

As he stole into the car Dr. Mittyford seemed comparatively human, remarking:  “I feel bored this evening.  I thought I would give you a nuit blanche.  How would you like to go to the Red Unicorn at Brempton—­one of the few untouched old inns?”

“That would be nice,” said Mr. Wrenn, unenthusiastically.

His chilliness impressed Dr. Mittyford, who promptly told one of the best of his well-known whimsical yet scholarly stories.

“Ha! ha!” remarked Mr. Wrenn.

He had been saying to himself:  “By golly!  I ain’t going to even try to be a society guy with him no more.  I’m just going to be me, and if he don’t like it he can go to the dickens.”

So he was gentle and sympathetic and talked West Sixteenth Street slang, to the rhetorician’s lofty amusement.