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One of Dick’s virtues was an open mind.

“Well, I think old Arnold was quite right,” laughed Rory. “I’m sure it’s most awfully important to read ... who did you say, Munroe? Aristotle? Fancy not reading Aristotle! Rotten hole, Cambridge!”

David grinned with such perfect good-nature at this chaff, that the atmosphere perceptibly warmed in his favour.

“Oh, well; I dare say there’s a good deal to be said for Oxford,” said Dick magnanimously.

“Oh, of course! Oxford shoes; Morris-Cowley cars, summing up the whole of the Oxford movement ... namely, Cowley Fathers and the Preraphaelites!” shrieked Guy.

“Boar’s Hill!” screamed back Arnold.

“Or the ‘Oxford’—the music-hall, you know,” suggested Rory.

Then port wine began to come into its own.

There is a certain type of story with but little plot and the crudest psychology, to appreciate which—as in the case of the highest poetry—one must have a love of words—for their own sake.

“... and she thought the toast was ‘Church and Birmingham’!” ended Guy in a shrill scream.