“Well, I think we know how to put a pretty firm foot down on it here,” he said. “Master Mackenzie will find that his gliders and his dinner at eight aren’t looked very warmly on. By the way, young Linnet played a fine innings the other day against Middlesex, and he showed me up an uncommonly good piece of Greek prose this week. Cricket and Greek. I wish the undergraduates would stick to them. Then we shouldn’t have much bother with fellows like Mackenzie.”
Waters took his watch from his pocket and absently wound it up, instead of looking at the time.
“I was dipping into a play by that obscene Scandinavian dramatist the other day,” he said, “and found a line about the younger generation knocking at the door. Hedda Gabler was it?—anyhow there was a vast lot of gabble.”
“Obscene?” said Alison. “Isn’t that rather a strong word?”
“It was rather strong stuff: that is why I chose the word.”
“I should have said that piffle was nearer the mark,” said Jackson with an air of complete finality.
“I beg to second that motion, if we’re talking about Ibsen,” said Butler. “But I propose as an amendment that we don’t talk about Ibsen. Why talk about Ibsen?”
“Well, we won’t,” said Waters. “I delete the obscene Scandinavian, and remark on my own account that the younger generation does seem to me to be knocking at the door.”
Jackson put on his gown.
“Sport your oak, then, my dear fellow,” he said, “and go on with your Plato. And shut your windows against Mackenzie’s gliders. Cambridge is all right, there’s life in the old dog yet, and a good set of teeth too, if there’s going to be any question of its dinner. Well, I must go. Very pleasant evening, Butler. Good-night, all of you.”