And this proved a harder task than might have been expected from so brilliant a party. Young Oxford was put forward in vain. The New Wallace was ruled out as parochial. David’s suggestion was The University Echo, and The Parnassian did not lack a few supporters. Several showed enthusiasm for The Cherwell, but Gaveston it was who won the unanimous suffrage of all with The Mongoose. Everyone was delighted, and Vere O’Neill, the chartered artist of the party, quickly etched on a scrap of paper lying to hand a clever woodcut of that engaging bird. Gav put the finishing touches to it with a tube of water-colours, and so the title, and the cover of at least the first issue, were ready.
A policy? That was surely the next thing to be gone into, and again there were differences while they sat up late one night over a friendly bowl of absinthe, the national drink of the country. Outside the cottage the Atlantic hurricanes battered upon the shutters.
Mongo considered that the problems of the Near East were perhaps inadequately represented at Oxford. But O’Neill was strong for a judicious blending of socialism and articraftiness.
“Back to Marx!” was his cry. It was a daring appeal, but all felt that perhaps his quick Hibernian imagination might carry them too far. Other tempting suggestions, philanthropic, poetic, imperialist, flashed in the shadowy room, but David brought a refreshing current of cool sanity into the somewhat hectic debate.
“I think Gaveston had better decide,” he said. And they knew he was right.
At once Gaveston rose from his seat and stood by the fireplace. His address was a masterpiece of editorial tact.
“You’re right, Mr. Arundel,” he began; and this revival of an all but forgotten name at such an auspicious moment was recognized as possessing the true ffoulis cachet. “You’re right. Our foreign policy shall centre round the Balkans: they need a rallying point. You’re right too, O’Neill: we shall insist on the importance of Art for the Masses. You shall write an article on Morris Dancing and we shall publish at least two poems in every number. You’re right too, David, decidedly. And so are all of you others. We cannot, as you rightly insist, go on allowing the present social system to stew in its own juice. We certainly must not allow the great Pegasus of the English poetic tradition to be left for ever ambling round Poppin’s Court, or even to be emasculated in Carlyle Square. Nor must we allow the Empire to be neglected.”
The applause was now general.
“But what,” demanded the speaker, “what is the link which will unite all these admittedly various policies? What will give them a driving force and a sacrée union?”
The company had already forgotten their foaming glasses on the table, and were gathering round the handsome orator by the fireplace. They knew that if Gaveston asked a question, it was only because he had an answer ready. The pause was impressive, even agonizing.