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event do you wish to celebrate?’
    ‘Why, the remarkable event I wish to celebrate,’ said Brown, ‘is the appearance of Mr R S Winslow in the Trial Eights. I don’t think anyone has got in before me. And I know we should all feel that when the Bursar has a son at the college, and the young man distinguishes himself, we want the pleasure of marking the occasion.’
    Winslow was taken right aback. He looked down at the table, and gave a curiously shy, diffident smile.
    ‘I must say this is handsome of you, Brown,’ he said.
    ‘It’s a privilege,’ said Brown.
    We returned to the combination room, and took our places for wine. The table could hold twenty, and we occupied only one end of it; but the room was intimate, the glasses sparkled in the warm light, the silver shone, the reflection of the decanter was clear as it passed over the polished table. Luke filled our glasses, and, since Winslow’s health was to be drunk, it was the duty of Jago, as the next senior, to propose it. He did it with warmth, his face alight. He was full of grace and friendliness, Brown’s steady cordiality had infected him, he was at ease within this group at the table as he never could be with Winslow alone. ‘The Bursar and his son,’ he said.
    ‘Thank you, Senior Tutor. Thank you all. Thank you.’ Winslow lifted his glass to Brown. As we drank Brown’s health, I caught his dark, vigilant eye. He had tamed Winslow for the moment: he was showing Jago at his best, which he very much wanted to do: he had brought peace to the table. He was content, and sipped his claret with pleasure. He loved good fellowship. He loved the arts of management. He did not mind if no one else noticed his skill. He was a very shrewd and far-sighted man.
    He was used to being thought of as just a nice old buffer. ‘Good old Brown’, the Master called him. ‘The worthy Brown’, said Winslow, with caustic dismissal: ‘Uncle Arthur’ was his nickname among the younger fellows. Yet he was actually the youngest of the powerful middle-aged block in the college. Jago was just over fifty; Chrystal, Brown’s constant friend and ally, was forty-eight, while Brown himself, though he had been elected a fellow before Chrystal, was still not quite forty-six. He was a historian by subject, and was Jago’s junior colleague as the second tutor.
    Winslow was talking, with a veneer of indifference, about his son. ‘He’ll never get into the boat,’ he said. ‘He’s thought to be lucky to have gone as far as this. It would be pleasant for his sake if they made another mistake in his favour. Poor boy, it’s the only notoriety he’s ever likely to have. He’s rather a stupid child.’
    His tone was intended to stay caustic – it turned indulgent, sad, anxiously fond. Brown said: ‘I’m not prepared to agree. One might say that he doesn’t find examinations very congenial.’
    Winslow smiled.
    ‘Mind you, Tutor,’ he said with asperity, ‘it’s important for the child that he gets through his wretched tripos this June. He’s thought to stand a chance of the colonial service if he can scrape a third. Of course, I’m totally ignorant of these matters, but I can’t see why our colonies should need third-class men with some capacity for organized sports. However, one can forgive the child for not taking that view. It’s important for his sake that he shouldn’t disgrace himself in June.’
    ‘I hope we’ll get him through,’ said Brown. ‘I think we’ll just about manage it.’
    ‘We’ll get him through,’ said Jago.
    ‘I’m sorry that my family should be such a preposterous nuisance,’ said Winslow.
    The wine went round again. As he put down his glass, Winslow asked: ‘Is there any news of the Master tonight?’
    ‘There can’t be any,’ said Chrystal.
    Winslow raised his eyebrows.
    ‘There can’t be any,’ Chrystal repeated, ‘until he dies. It’s no use. We’ve got to get used to it.’
    The words were so curt and harsh that we were