himself than would be pleasant, and he postponed the
summons in favor of an examination of his letters. One after another he
opened them, and every one was the advertisement of a tailor or
hairdresser or tobacconist. The tailors were the most insistent; they
even went so far as to announce that representatives would call upon him
at his pleasure. Michael made up his mind to order his cap and gown
after lunch. Lunch! How should he obtain lunch? Where should he obtain
lunch? When should he obtain lunch? Obviously there must be some precise
manner of obtaining lunch, some ritual consecrated by generations of St.
Mary's men. The loneliness came back triumphant, and plunged him
dejectedly down into a surprisingly deep wicker-chair. The fire crackled
in the silence, and the problem of lunch remained insoluble. The need
for Porcher's advice became more desperate. Other freshmen before him
must have depended upon their scout's experience. He began to practice
calling Porcher in accents so low that they acquired a tender and
reproachful significance. Michael braced himself for the performance
after these choked and muffled rehearsals, and went boldly out on to the
stone landing. An almost entranced silence held the staircase, a
silence that he could not bring himself to violate. On the door of the
rooms opposite he read his neighbor's name--_Mackintosh_. He wished he
knew whether Mackintosh were a freshman. It would be delightful to make
him share the responsibility of summoning Porcher from his task of
arranging Lonsdale's wine. And who was Lonsdale? _No slops must be
emptied here! Mackintosh! Fane!_ Here were three announcements hinting
at humanity in a desolation of stillness. Michael reading his own name
gathered confidence and a volume of breath, leaned over the stone
parapet of the landing and, losing all his courage in a sigh, decided to
walk downstairs and take his chance of meeting Porcher on the way.

On the floor beneath Michael read _Bannerman_ over the left-hand door
and _Templeton-Collins_ over the right-hand door. While he was pondering
the personality and status of Templeton-Collins, presumably the
gentleman himself appeared, stared at Michael very deliberately, came
forward and, leaning over the parapet, yelled in a voice that combined
rage, protest, disappointment and appeal with the maximum of sound:
"Porcher!" After which, Templeton-Collins again stared very deliberately
at Michael and retired into his room,