“How typical!” they would comment, pointing to Mongo in the group of Hilary term, 1843.
“How typical!” pointing to the, yes, distinctly but temporarily whiskered Mongo of 1879.
“How typical!” as they admired the négligé of his flannel “bags” of 1907.
“Wonder why this young man wasn’t doing his bit,” they would say querulously when they turned over and found him forming, together with the aged President and a neutral student from Liberia, the group of 1917.
Dear Mongo!
David had warned Gaveston that twenty minutes to eleven was generally considered the “right” hour of the evening to knock for the first time at the door of the sempiternal Dean. But for his first visit, modestly postponed until his second night, Gav was careful of effect.
He waited until all the divergent clocks of Oxford had heralded the full three-quarters before he crossed towards the kindly red glow of the curtained embrasure behind which the recognized Mongoons were already gathered. Stopping for a moment by the Hall steps, he rehearsed the intimate smile and the easy hand-wave that would of a surety ingratiate him with Mongo and the Mongoons on this entry into a circle where youth and charm and wit were indeed familiar, but Gaveston ffoulis something new.
It would do. Spirally he climbed the turret staircase.
“Come in!” came the welcoming cry of half a dozen eager guests who responded to his discreet but confident knock.