During the first week of term, Guy first mentioned his neighbour to me. We were sitting on my window seat looking over the quad¹, when I noticed slinking out of the J.C.R. a strange shambling man of middle age. He was ill-dressed and rather dirty, and he peered forward as he walked.
“That strange man,” said Guy, “has got the room opposite me.”
We decided² that this would be dull for Guy, for we had often seen these strange old men before and knew that they had no interest to offer, except the dull curiosity of asking why they had come to Oxford³. And they were nearly always ready to tell their story of miserly saving and the thirst for knowledge. Therefore when, a fortnight later, Guy began to talk of him again, I was considerably⁴ surprised.
“You know, he leads an incredible life; my scout⁵ told me that he has never been out to a meal or had a single man in to see him. He doesn’t know one of the other freshers and can’t find his way about Oxford. He’s never heard of half the Colleges. I think I shall go in and talk to him one evening. Come up with me.”
So one evening at about half past ten, Guy and I went across to this strange man’s room. We knocked, and getting no answer, opened the door. The room was in darkness, and we were about to go, when Guy said: “Let’s have a look at his room.”
I turned on his light and then gave a gasp⁶ of astonishment⁷. The little man was sitting in his arm chair with his hands in his lap looking straight at us. We began to apologize, but he interrupted us.
“What do you want? I do not wish to be disturbed.”
“Our names are Guy Legge and Barnes,” I said, “we just came in to see you, but if you’re busy —” I was strangely discomforted by this man and had not yet recovered from the shock of finding him sitting there in the dark.
“It was unnecessary to come and see me. I don’t want to know you Barnes, or you Legge, or anyone else.”
And outside the door I said, “Well I’m damned. Of all the

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