“What will the Dean do?” asked one or two less audacious ones as they faded into various doorways, ready to obliterate their presence as soon as authority should arrive upon the scene.
“What does the Dean matter?” cried others, flinging more faggots on to the fire until it crackled and spat and bellowed more fiercely than ever, lighting up with its wavy radiance the great elms beyond the Warden’s garden and the Palladian fragment of New quad whence the dons like Georgian squires pondered their prosperity.
Presently against the silvery space framed by the gateway of St. Cuthbert’s tower appeared the silhouette of the Dean, lank and tall with college cap tip-tilted down on to his nose and round his neck a gown wrapped like a shawl. Nearer he came, and involuntarily the freshmen so lately schoolboys took on in their attitude a certain anxiety. Somehow the group round the bonfire had become much smaller. Somehow more windows looking upon the quad were populated with flickering watchful faces.
“Great Scott! What can Ambrose do?” demanded Lonsdale despairingly, but when at last the Dean reached the zone of the fire, there only remained about eight freshmen to ascertain his views and test his power. The Dean stood for a minute or two, silently warming his hands. In a ring the presumed leaders eyed him, talking to each other the while with slightly exaggerated carelessness.
“Well, Mr. Fane?” asked the Dean.
“Well, sir,” Michael replied.
“Damned good,” whispered Lonsdale ecstatically in Michael’s ear. “You couldn’t have said anything better. That’s damned good.”
Michael under the enthusiastic congratulations of Lonsdale began to feel he had indeed said something very good, but he hoped he would soon have an opportunity to say something even better.
“Enjoying yourself, Mr. Lonsdale?” inquired the Dean.
“Yes, sir. Are you?” answered Lonsdale.