So incomparably slight was the hang-over from Perrier Jouet ’93 that Grainger, Lonsdale, and Michael smiled very cheerfully, produced their check books, and would, if Mr. Ambrose had not been so discouraging, have been really chatty.
After Collections of Lent term, that opportunity accepted by the college authorities to be offensive in bulk, Michael felt his historical studies were scarcely betraying such an impulse toward research as might have been expected of him at this stage. Mr. Harbottle, the History tutor, an abrupt and pleasant man with the appearance of a cat and the manners of a dog, yapped vituperations from where he sat with all the other dons in judgment along the High Table in Hall.
The Warden turned on his orbit and shone full-faced upon Michael.
“A little more work, Mr. Fane, will encourage us all. Your Collection papers have evidently planted a doubt in Mr. Harbottle’s mind.”
“He never does a stroke of honest work, Warden,” yapped the History tutor. “If he stays up ten years he’ll never get a Fourth.”
“In spite of Mr. Harbottle’s discouraging prophecy, we must continue to hope, Mr. Fane, that you will obtain at least a Second next term.”
“Next term!” Michael gasped. “But I was expecting to take Schools next year.”
“I’m afraid,” said the Warden, “that according to Mr. Ambrose the fabric of the college will scarcely survive another year of your residence. I believe I echo your views, Mr. Ambrose?”
The Dean blinked his gray eye and finally said that possibly Mr. Fane would change next term, adding that a more immediately serious matter was a deficit of no less than seven chapels. Michael pointed out that he designed in his fourth year to go as it were into industrious solitude far away from St. Mary’s.
“Are you suggesting Iffley?” inquired the Warden.