"Time to go, I' m afraid," Dr. Mittyford was saying. Through
the exquisite haze that now filled the room Mr. Wrenn saw him
dimly, as a triangle of shirt-front and two gleaming ellipses
for eyes.... His dear friend, the Doc!... As he walked through
the room chairs got humorously in his way, but he good-naturedly
picked a path among them, and fell asleep in the motor-car. All
the ride back he made soft mouse-like sounds of snoring.
When he awoke in the morning with a headache and surveyed his
unchangeably dingy room he realized slowly, after smothering his
head in the pillow to shut off the light from his scorching
eyeballs, that Dr. Mittyford had called him a fool for trying to
wander. He protested, but not for long, for he hated to venture
out there among the dreadfully learned colleges and try to
understand stuff written in letters that look like crow-tracks.
He packed his suit-case slowly, feeling that he was very wicked
in leaving Oxford's opportunities.
Mr. Wrenn rode down on a Tottenham Court Road bus, viewing the
quaintness of London.
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