and then 'For Christ's sake, Saffer.' So saying he rushed over to the fray, which was being watched helplessly by two young French waiters, definitely too slight to deal with the burly figures of the contestants. Tiggie herself had by this time retired to the sidelines, or rather the lap of one of the other Iunchers not involved in the fracas - one could only assume he was a previous acquaintance as Tiggie seemed much at home in her situation, sucking her finger and cheering on Saffron. Saffron himself, in spite of the blows landed on Rufus Pember, was beginning to get very much the worst of it at the hands of the huge Copley, while Bim remained prone on the floor.
'It's disgusting!' said a woman in a brown velvet hat very loudly at the table next to Jemima's. 'Why doesn't someone do something? We haven't come here to watch a fight.'
'They should all be sent into the Army,' remarked her companion, a middle-aged man, grimly. 'These young fellows need a good sergeant-major to take the stuffing out of them. When National Service ended - criminal, I said so at the time—' Jemima stopped listening, but not before the woman in the brown velvet hat had contributed something about the waste of taxpayers' money.
It was Jack Iverstone in fact who ended the fight, ended it just as the proprietor - a very small and very angry Frenchman - announced his intention of sending for the police. With admirable courage, Jack pushed his way between the contestants and put his hand on his cousin's chest.
'You bloody fool, Saffer. Do you want to be sent down?'
Saffron stared back, dishevelled, panting, and said nothing.
'Do you want to make the headlines in the Post every day?' went on Jack.
'Come on then, man,' said Saffron after a minute, in an approximation of his usual languid manner, inhibited by breathlessness, 'let's leave this unholy mess. Oh yes, yes, I'll pay—' thrown in the direction of the proprietor '—Viscount Saffron, Rochester College.'
Staggering slightly, but with his shoulders squared, Saffron headed for the stairs as though the mess of wine and glass and food he left behind him simply did not exist. Jack Iverstone hesitated, looked round where his party still sat, stunned, at their table, and then went after Saffron.
'See you later, Saffer!' called out the man named Bim suddenly from the floor.
'See you in Hell!' shouted a voice from the rival table. Was it Rufus Pember or the enormous Nigel Copley? Or one of the others at the table who, to do them credit, had not joined in the affray. 'We'll get you, you—' a stream of obscenities followed. 'And when we get you, Saffer, there won't be anything to help you, not Daddy's money, not The Taller, nor the Queen.'
'Aren't they terrible?' Daphne Iverstone's voice cut sweetly across the invective, like some light soprano joining a bass ensemble. 'I don't think people like that should be allowed to eat in good restaurants, do you, Miss Shore? Poor darling Saffer. He's led a very sheltered life, you know, with such elderly parents, wonderful people of course, but so old when he was born. He was terribly protected. I did try to warn Gwendolen. I wonder if he was quite ready for Oxford.'
There was a sublimity about Mrs Iverstone's blindness to her young cousin's failings - well, almost a sublimity. No question but that she adored him. No question also but that there were a great many other people presently within Oxford who did not.
The lunch party - what there was left of it - dispersed. Jemima came upon Jack Iverstone unlocking his bicycle from a nearby railing as she left the restaurant. Saffron had vanished.
'Are you going back to Rochester?' she asked.
'No, to the Bodleian,' he answered rather shortly. Then as if to apologize for a temporary lapse in courtesy, he added with a smile: 'The Bodleian is a wonderful cure for bad temper.' Then: 'So what did you think of Rochester, Miss Shore?'
'It's a beautiful college. Architecturally.'
'Oh quite. I'm at St Lucy's
'It's disgusting!' said a woman in a brown velvet hat very loudly at the table next to Jemima's. 'Why doesn't someone do something? We haven't come here to watch a fight.'
'They should all be sent into the Army,' remarked her companion, a middle-aged man, grimly. 'These young fellows need a good sergeant-major to take the stuffing out of them. When National Service ended - criminal, I said so at the time—' Jemima stopped listening, but not before the woman in the brown velvet hat had contributed something about the waste of taxpayers' money.
It was Jack Iverstone in fact who ended the fight, ended it just as the proprietor - a very small and very angry Frenchman - announced his intention of sending for the police. With admirable courage, Jack pushed his way between the contestants and put his hand on his cousin's chest.
'You bloody fool, Saffer. Do you want to be sent down?'
Saffron stared back, dishevelled, panting, and said nothing.
'Do you want to make the headlines in the Post every day?' went on Jack.
'Come on then, man,' said Saffron after a minute, in an approximation of his usual languid manner, inhibited by breathlessness, 'let's leave this unholy mess. Oh yes, yes, I'll pay—' thrown in the direction of the proprietor '—Viscount Saffron, Rochester College.'
Staggering slightly, but with his shoulders squared, Saffron headed for the stairs as though the mess of wine and glass and food he left behind him simply did not exist. Jack Iverstone hesitated, looked round where his party still sat, stunned, at their table, and then went after Saffron.
'See you later, Saffer!' called out the man named Bim suddenly from the floor.
'See you in Hell!' shouted a voice from the rival table. Was it Rufus Pember or the enormous Nigel Copley? Or one of the others at the table who, to do them credit, had not joined in the affray. 'We'll get you, you—' a stream of obscenities followed. 'And when we get you, Saffer, there won't be anything to help you, not Daddy's money, not The Taller, nor the Queen.'
'Aren't they terrible?' Daphne Iverstone's voice cut sweetly across the invective, like some light soprano joining a bass ensemble. 'I don't think people like that should be allowed to eat in good restaurants, do you, Miss Shore? Poor darling Saffer. He's led a very sheltered life, you know, with such elderly parents, wonderful people of course, but so old when he was born. He was terribly protected. I did try to warn Gwendolen. I wonder if he was quite ready for Oxford.'
There was a sublimity about Mrs Iverstone's blindness to her young cousin's failings - well, almost a sublimity. No question but that she adored him. No question also but that there were a great many other people presently within Oxford who did not.
The lunch party - what there was left of it - dispersed. Jemima came upon Jack Iverstone unlocking his bicycle from a nearby railing as she left the restaurant. Saffron had vanished.
'Are you going back to Rochester?' she asked.
'No, to the Bodleian,' he answered rather shortly. Then as if to apologize for a temporary lapse in courtesy, he added with a smile: 'The Bodleian is a wonderful cure for bad temper.' Then: 'So what did you think of Rochester, Miss Shore?'
'It's a beautiful college. Architecturally.'
'Oh quite. I'm at St Lucy's
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