"I wonder if Parsons will remember us," said Biffin as the train
thundered into the station.
"Of course he will," I replied. "Parsons never forgets anything."
"I doubt it," said Biffin.
As our taxi drew up before the portals of Alma Mater the first person
we saw, standing on the steps of the porter's lodge, was Parsons. He
was as Olympian as ever. As soon as you saw him you felt that, though
they might abolish compulsory Greek or introduce a Finance Tripos,
they would never be able to subdue the ancient spirit of the
University. A single glimpse of Parsons, standing erect in all his
traditional glory, showed up people like Mr. H.G. WELLS in their true
perspective in a moment. It did one good.
We approached him. "Good afternoon, Parsons," we said, with a brave
attempt at _sang-froid_.
Parsons regarded us. "Good afternoon, Mr. Jones," he said to me. Then
his eyes rested on Biffin. "Good afternoon, Sir," he said.
Biffin nudged me, "He's forgotten me," he whispered. Parsons continued
to subject him to an implacable scrutiny. At length he spoke again.
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