“Thirty-two years,” corrected Wedderburn in his voice of most reverberant certitude. “Venner’s is practically a club. You aren’t elected, but somehow you know just when you can go in without being stared at. There’s nothing in Oxford like that little office of Venner’s. It’s practically made St. Mary’s what it is.”
All the freshmen, sipping their port and lolling back in their new gowns, looked very reverent and very conscious of the honor and glory of St. Mary’s which they themselves hoped soon to affirm more publicly than they could at present. Upon their meditations sounded very loud the blast of a coach-horn from above.
“That’s Templeton-Collins,” said Michael.
“Who’s he?” several demanded.
“He’s the man who used to live in these rooms last year,” said Lonsdale lightly, as if that were the most satisfactory description for these freshmen, as indeed for all its youthful heartlessness it was.
“Let’s all yell and tell him to shut up that infernal row,” suggested Wedderburn sternly. Already from sitting in an armchair at the head of a table of freshmen he was acquiring an austere seniority of his own.
“To a second-year blood?” whispered somebody in dread surprise.
“Why not take away the coach-horn?” Lonsdale added.
However, this the freshmen were not prepared to do, although with unanimity they invited Templeton-Collins to refrain from blowing it.
“Keep quiet, little boys,” shouted Templeton-Collins down the stairs.