“I think I’ll go round and consult Wedderburn about this paper,” said Avery excitedly.
“He thinks you’re patronizing,” Michael warned him.
Avery pulled up, suddenly hurt:
“Does he? I wonder why.”
“But he won’t, if you ask his advice about reproducing advanced drawings.”
“Doesn’t he like me?” persisted Avery. “I’d better not go round to his rooms.”
“Don’t be foolish, Maurice. Your sensitiveness is really all spoiled vanity.”
When Avery had hesitatingly embarked upon his expedition to Wedderburn, Michael thought rather regretfully of his presence and wished he had been more sympathetic in his reception of the great scheme. Yet perhaps that was the best way to have begun his own scheme for not being disturbed by life. Michael thought how easily he might have had to reproach himself over Lily Haden. He had escaped once. There should be no more active exposure to frets and fevers. Looking back on his life, Michael came to the conclusion that henceforth books should give him his adventures. Actually he almost made up his mind to retire even from the observation of reality, so much had he felt, all this Christmas vacation, the dominance of Stella and so deeply had he been impressed by Prescott’s attitude of inscrutable commentary.
Michael was greatly amused when two or three evenings later he strolled round to Wedderburn’s rooms to find him and Maurice Avery sitting in contemplation of about twenty specimen covers of The Oxford Looking-Glass that were pinned against the wall on a piece of old lemon-colored silk. He was greatly amused to find that the reconciling touch of the Muses had united Avery and Wedderburn in a firm friendship—so much amused indeed that he allowed himself to be nominated to serve on the obstetrical committee that was to effect the birth of this undergraduate bantling.
“Though what exactly you want me to do,” protested Michael, “I don’t quite know.”