The Dean and I were sitting after dinner discussing the shortage of students at Oxford since the war began. “You have no idea,” he was saying, “how strange it is to lecture to a class of four or five when one has been accustomed to forty or fifty. This morning, for instance….” “Well, Dean,” I put in, “after the war there will be no lectures on Latin poetry. The times are changing.” The old man threw back his head, and his silvery beard waved in the candle-light. “Listen,” he began, “you remember the passage where a father was trying to [Read More]