“Let’s go and touch him,” said Berry excitedly.  “Then we shan’t get the King’s Evil.  That’s the origin of inoculation.”

“I implore you,” said Daphne, “to behave yourself.  As a personal favour——­”

“You see in me,” said her husband, “a huntleyed palmer seeking the tomb of Anne of Cloves.  On finding it, I must scourge myself.  Anyone who directs me to it will be assaulted.”

“She’s buried at Oranges,” said Jonah.  “But don’t let that stop you.”

Berry replaced his wideawake and stared at him.

“To mock me,” he said, “is most dangerous.  Several people have been transformed for such an offence.  Only yesterday I was compelled to change a taxi-driver into a Gorgonzola of military age.”

Several clocks struck the half-hour.  Half-past two.

“Look here,” said I.  “We want to go to New College and ‘The House,’ but we can’t push off if you’re going to come with us looking like that.  For Heaven’s sake, go back to The Mitre and get your own hat.  Mr. Lewis, won’t you go and fix him up?”

Quick as a flash, Daphne threw her weight into the scale which I had slung.

“Yes, do,” she implored.  “You know, you oughtn’t to have let him come out like that,” she added, with a reproachful smile.  “And then you can join us a New College.”

Our manoeuvre was successful beyond all expectation.  His vanity flattered, the gentleman addressed flung himself into the breach with every manifestation of delight, and, seizing my brother-in-law by the arm, haled him gleefully in the direction of The High, humouring his obvious reluctance with the familiar assurances which one usually associates with the persuasion of the unsober.

In silence we watched them till they had turned the corner.  Then—­

“Did I say New College?” said Daphne hurriedly.

“You did,” said I.  “So we’d better go straight to ‘The House.’”

Three minutes later we were exploring my old rooms in Peckwater Quadrangle, Christ Church.

* * * * *

In spite of its inauspicious beginning, we spent an enjoyable afternoon.  By common consent New College was ruled out of our itinerary, but Oxford cannot be viewed in a day, and we found much to delight our senses south of the High Street.  Finally, a languorous journey by punt from the Barges to Magdalen Bridge more than compensated us for the somnolent half-hour which we had been proposing to spend under the shadow of the City Wall.

Our return to The Mitre—­a movement which was effected with great caution—­was eagerly awaited by the hall-porter, who inquired anxiously regarding my brother-in-law, and produced his grey Homburg with a note addressed To the Owner stuck in the hatband.

“The gentleman as was of your party, sir, was inquirin’ about ’is ’at an hour or two back, sir.  ’E ’adn’t ’ardly gone, when a reverend gent come in, all of a state, with this ’at in ’is ’and.  Seems he took it away absent-minded like, instead of ’is own, sir.  Though ’ow ’e can ’ave made such a mistake I can’t think, ‘is bein’ a Church ’at as plain as plain.  But they’re like that up ‘ere, sir, some o’ them.”