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frequently—
frequently
—drops below zero Fahrenheit. Mr. Pott, will this charming couple be spending the term with us here?” When it was explained to him, more readily than tactfully, that our presence here was an emergency measure, the result of a merciful impulse which Mr. Pott, his implication was, already regretted, Mr. Robinson bent his face low over the table to look up at us. He had perfect upper teeth. “You must know the
way
,” he said, “the ins and outs, the little shortcuts and circumlocutions, circumflexions, the
circumstances
; else you will never find a flat. You have waited long, too long; in a few days the Michaelmas term will be upon us and from Woodstock to Cowley there won’t be a room to be
had
. But I,
I
”—he lifted one finger and closed one eye sagely—“I may be of help.
‘Che tu mi segui,’
as Vergil said to Dante,
‘e io sarò tua guida!’
”
    We were of course grateful for a guide. The three of us walked down St. John’s Street (all the shades were drawn, though this was daylight), up Beaumont past the sooty, leonine sprawl of the Ashmolean, and down Magdalen Street to Cornmarket, where indeed we did see the Saxon tower. Mr. Robinson indicated points of interest continuously. His lower jaw seemed abnormally slender, as if a normal jaw had been whittled for greater flexibility and lightness. It visibly supported only one lower tooth, and that one hardly bigger than a fleck of tobacco, and set in the gum sideways; whereas his upper teeth were strikingly even and complete. Through these mismatched gates he poured an incessant stream of frequently stressed words, broken only when, preparatory to some heightened effort of erudition, he preeningly cleared his throat. “Now we are standing in the center of town, the very hub and beating heart of Oxfordshire, Carfax, derived—uh-uh-hem—from the Norman
carrefor
, the Latin
quadrifurcus
, meaning ‘four forks,’ or ‘crossroads.’ Do you know Latin? The last international language, the—uh-hem—Esperanto of Christendom.” He carried an old paper bag, and we found ourselves in a vast roofed market, surrounded by blood-flecked butcher’s stalls and bins of raw vegetables smelling of mud. Mr. Robinson methodically filled his bag with potatoes. He examined each potato, and hesitated with it, as if it would be his last; but then his anxious parchmenty hand would dart out and seize yet another. When the bag could hold no more, he shrugged and began to wander away. The proprietress of the stall shouted in protest. She was fat; her face looked scorched; and she wore a man’s boots and numerous unravelling sweaters. Without a word, Mr. Robinson returned and rather grandly dumped all the potatoes back into the bin. Along with the potatoes some papers fluttered out, and thesehe put back in the bag. He turned to us and smiled. “Now,” he said, “it is surely time for lunch. Oxnaford is no town to storm on an empty stomach.”
    “But,” I said, “Mr. Robinson, what about the place we have to find?”
    He audibly exhaled, as if he had just tasted a superb wine. “
Aaaaah
. I have not forgotten, I have not forgotten. We must tread cautiously; you do not know, you see, the
way
. The ins and outs, the
circumstances
.” He led us to a cafeteria above a furniture store on the Broad and through the chips and custard tried to distract us with a profuse account of Oxford in its medieval heyday—Roger Bacon, Duns Scotus, the “Mad Parliament” of 1256, the town-gown riots of St. Scholastica’s Day in 1355. Down on the street once more, he took to plucking our arms and making promises. One more little trip, one harmless excursion that would be
very
useful for us, and then down to business. He escorted us all the way down High Street to the Magdalen Bridge, and thus we received our first glimpse of the Cherwell. No punts were out at this time of year, and swans generally stayed downriver. But, looking back toward the center of town, we