But somehow the P. and H.’ers did not all seem to take kindly to the æsthetic side of Gaveston’s remarkable personality. For a ffoulis it was easy to see life steadily and see it whole, but for a Minns or a Jones there seemed to be a curious difficulty in reconciling Dorian Gray with The Ritual Reason Why. It was a bagatelle for Gaveston to haste across the road from a protracted tea-party at Pembroke with the leading Oxford authority on dalmatics to a gay picnic supper at Christ Church, where dancing in pyjama costume would be varied with caviare and liqueurs. Each party would rightly acclaim him as the most enthusiastic and daring spirit present.
“He’s superbly High,” the one host would say as he left.
“He’s so gloriously low, my dears,” the next would proudly whisper.
And both loved him.
But an end had to come. As term drew to its close, Gaveston saw that he had extracted all that either set could give him, and he planned a glorious symposium of both of his sets for the last day of term. John Jones warned him, in honest manly fashion, that he was attempting the impossible. But Gaveston’s mind was made up.
“No, John,” he argued. “This term must end in glowing magnificence—benedictionally—come what may. Life, as they say at Brasenose, must burn with a hard gem-like flame. Besides, it’s an Ember day.”
And John was persuaded to distribute the invitations in Keble.
It was a lunch party. Gaveston spared no pains in arranging the function; and they were needed, for it had to make its appeal to the divergent tastes of all his guests. Six of them were to come on from the Blessing of the Embers at the newly consecrated Uniate Orthodox chapel, affiliated to the mother-church of SS. Protus and Hyacinth, and the remaining half-dozen were to join the party after a breakfast-dance (domino or poudré optional) at the Carlton Club. Gav himself compromised by attending Wallace chapel, but, a scrupulous host, he could not trust the Wallace buttery to provide the viands for such a party. He went in person to Buol’s to order a collation.
“For one o’clock exactly,” he insisted to the astonished caterer. “And remember—the Byzantine touch in everything.”