“Has he?” said Lonsdale. “Oh, yes, I see what you mean. You mean when he was Governor. Oh, rather. But I never knew him in those days.” Then under his breath he muttered to Michael: “Dive in, dive in, you rotter, I’m getting out of my depth.”
“I think Oxford will change the Rhodes Scholars much more profoundly than the Rhodes Scholars will change Oxford,” said Michael. “At least they will if Oxford hasn’t lost anything lately. Sometimes I’m worried by that, and then I’m not, for I do really feel that they must be changed. Civilization must have some power, or we should all revert.”
“And are we to regard these finished oversea products as barbarians?” asked the Warden.
“Oh, yes,” said Michael earnestly. “Just as much barbarians as any freshmen.”
Everybody looked at the two freshmen on either side of the Dean and laughed, while they laughed too and tried to appear pleasantly flattered by the epithet.
“And what will Oxford give them?” asked the Dean dryly. He spoke with that contempt of generalizations of which all dons made a habit.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Michael. “But vaguely I would say that Oxford would cure them of being surprised by themselves or of showing surprise at anybody else. Marcus Aurelius said what I’m trying to say much better than I ever can. Also they will gain a sense of humor, or rather they will ripen whatever sense they already possess. And they’ll have a sense of continuity, too, and perhaps—but of course this will depend very much on their dons—perhaps they’ll take as much interest in the world as in Australia.”
“Why will that depend on their dons?” challenged Mr. Ambrose.
“Oh, well, you know,” explained Michael apologetically, “dons very often haven’t much capacity for inquisitiveness. They get frightened very easily, don’t they?”
“Very true, very true,” said the Warden. “But, my dear Fane, your optimism and your pessimism are both quixotic, immensely quixotic.”