whom I entertained awe and respect. Likes and dislikes in connection
with one's tutor seemed outside the question. Only a chance episode had
shown me that my tutor was a mortal with a mortal's limitations. We
were bicycling together one day along the Trumpington Road, when a form
appeared, coming to meet us. My tutor's speech grew more and more
halting as the form came nearer. At last he stopped talking altogether,
and wobbled in his saddle. The man bowed to him, and, as if he had won
through some fiery ordeal, he shot ahead like a gay professional rider.
When I drew level with him, he said, "That, Mr. Cloyster, is my
tailor."

Mr. Macrae was typical of the University don who is Scotch. He had
married the senior historian of Newnham. He lived (and still lives) by
proxy. His publishers order his existence. His honeymoon had been
placed at the disposal of these gentlemen, and they had allotted to
that period an edition of Aristotle's Ethics. Aristotle, accordingly,
received the most scholarly attention from the recently united couple
somewhere on the slopes of Mount Parnassus. All the reviews were
satisfactory.

In my third year at St. Gabriel's it was popularly supposed that Master
Pericles Aeschylus, Mr. Macrae's infant son, was turned to correct my
Latin prose, though my Iambics were withheld from him at the request of
the family doctor.

The letter which Pericles Aeschylus's father had addressed to me was
one of the pleasantest surprises I have ever had. It ran as follows:

_St. Gabriel's College,
Cambridge._