remembered something that he had forgotten. He laid his hands on the
arms of his chair and seemed about to rise.

"You're not going, Jim!" exclaimed Lady Dashwood. "I thought you had
come to talk to us. We have been doing our duty since dawn of day, and
this is May's little holiday, you know. Stop and talk nicely to us. Do
cheer us up!" Her voice became appealing.

The Warden rose from his chair and stood with one hand resting on the
back of it as if about to make some excuse for going away. Except for
the glance, necessitated by courtesy, that May Dashwood gave the Warden
when he entered, she had kept her eyes obstinately upon her work. Now
she looked up and met his eyes, only for a moment.

"I'm not going," he said, "but I find the fire too hot. Excuse me if I
move away. It has got muggy and warm--Oxford weather!"

"Open one of the windows," said Lady Dashwood. "I'm sure May and I shall
be glad of it."

He moved away and walked slowly down the length of the room. Going
behind the heavy curtains he opened a part of the casement and then drew
aside one of the curtains slightly. Then he slowly came back to them in
silence.

This silence that followed was embarrassing, so embarrassing that Lady
Dashwood broke into it urgently with the first subject that she could
think of. "Tell May about the Barber's ghost, Jim."

"Where does he appear?" asked May, interestedly, but without looking up.
"What part of the college?"

"In the library," said the Warden.

"And at the witching hour of midnight, I suppose?" said May.

"Birds of ill omen, I believe, appear at night," said the Warden. "All
Souls College ought to have had an All Souls' ghost, but it hasn't, it
has only its 'foolish Mallard.'"

"And if he does appear," said May, "what apology are you going to offer
him for the injustice of your predecessor in the eighteenth century?"

The Warden turned and stood looking back across the room at the warm
space of light and the two women sitting in it, with the firelight
flickering between them.

"If I were to make myself responsible for all the misdemeanours of the
Reverend Charles Langley," he said, "I should have my hands full;" and
he came slowly towards them as he spoke. "You have only to look at
Langley's face, over the mantelpiece, and you will see what I mean."

May Dashwood glanced up at the portrait and smiled.

"Do you admire our Custos dilectissimus?" he asked.

The lights were below the level of the po