“And what’s this, cousin ffoulis?” asked the Hon. Pamela Penhaligon with an anticipatory laugh hovering on her lips.
“That I always forget,” answered Gav, with masterly affectation of solemnity. “I think it’s either the official residence of the Vice-Chancellor, or the premises of the Labour Club.”
The welkin rang.
Readily may it be imagined how quickly the week passed for the party dowered with such an host. Even the long intervals each morning between the bumping races could not pall Gav’s gaiety.
“Why is it called Eights Week?” asked the Hon. Isidora Penhaligon as they waited patiently between the first and second heats of the Third Divide.
“It isn’t, Is,” was Gav’s retort. “It’s called Waits Week!”
And, in whole-hearted enjoyment of his friend’s pyrotechnics, David had almost choked over his delicious prunes in aspic.
The climax of all was, of course, the Cardinal College Fancy Dress Dance. To the last moment Gaveston succeeded in keeping secret the guise in which he planned to appear at the fashionable function. Not even David was admitted to his councils. Lively was the speculation in every college and hall, and even among the non-collegiate students, for such there are. Even Mongo was intrigued. For all his years, little in the college life escaped him, and he asked one day with a boyish laugh, “Going in woad, Gav?”
The response was instantaneous.