Your letter was full of news, and I read it over twice—once
to myself, and again after dinner to George and Sir Harry.
We pictured you dining in the college hall. Thanks to your
description, it was not very difficult: the long tables, the
silver tankards, the dark panels and the dark pictures above,
and the dons on the dais, aloof and very sedate. It reminded
me of Ivanhoe—I don't know why; and no doubt if ever I see
Magdalen, it will not be like my fancy in the least. But
that's how I see it; and you at a table near the bottom of the
hall, like the youthful squire in the story-books—the one,
you know, who sits at the feast below the salt until he is
recognized and forced to step up and take his seat with honor
at the high table. I began to explain all this to George, but
found that he had dropped asleep in his chair. He was tired
out after a long day with the pheasants.
I shall stay here for a week or two yet, perhaps. You know how
I hate Tredinnis. On my way over, I called at the Parsonage
and saw your mother. She was writing that very day, she said,
and promised to send my remembrances, which I hope duly
reached you. The Vicar was away at the church, of course.
There is great talk of the Bishop coming in February, when
all will be ready. George sends his love; I saw him for a
few minutes at breakfast this morning, before he started for
another day with the pheasants.
Your friend,
HONORIA.
2
CARWITHIEL, November 19, 18—.