the end of a long table; eight or ten dons were present. A gong was
struck; an undergraduate came up and scrambled through a Latin
Grace from a board which he held in his hand. The tables filled
rapidly with lively young men full of talk and appetite. Howard
found himself sitting next one of his colleagues, on the other side
of him being an ancient crony of Mr. Redmayne's, the Dean of a
neighbouring College. The talk was mainly local and personal,
diverging at times into politics. It was brisk, sensible, good-
natured conversation, by no means unamusing. Mr. Redmayne was an
unashamed Tory, and growled denunciations at a democratic
Government, whom he credited with every political vice under the
sun, depicting the Cabinet as men fishing in troubled seas with
philanthropic baits to catch votes. One of the younger dons, an
ardent Liberal, made a mild protest. "Ah," said Mr. Redmayne, "you
are still the prey of idealistic illusions. Politics are all based,
not on principles or programmes, but on the instinctive hatred of
opponents." There was a laugh at this. "You may laugh," said Mr.
Redmayne, "but you will find it to be true. Peace and goodwill are
pretty words to play with, but it is combativeness which helps the
world along; not the desire to be at peace, but the wish to maul
your adversary!"

It was the talk of busy men who met together, not to discuss, but
to eat, and conversed only to pass the time. But it was all good-
humoured enough, and even the verbal sharpness which was employed
was evidence of much mutual confidence and esteem.

Howard thought, looking down the Hall, when the meal was in full
fling, what a picturesque, cheerful, lively affair it all was. The
Hall was lighted only by candles in heavy silver candlesticks,