“When you speak of ‘learned men’, Warden, don’t you think you should say ‘and women’, to avoid any injustice?” said Mrs. Skeldergate.

“As the Warden’s legal counsellor I can assure you that whenever he says ‘men’ the word ‘women’ is also to be understood,” said Ludlow.

“And neuter, to avoid any discrimination or hurt feelings in a university community,” said the Warden, who was not wholly without humour.

“Will you take coffee, Warden?” said I, in the approved formula. The Warden rose, and the table broke up, and for the last few minutes of the evening, new groups formed.

Arthur Cornish approached me. “I haven’t had a chance to tell you how much I appreciate what you did this afternoon,” he said. “Of course everybody assumes that I have inherited enormously from Uncle Frank, but in the complexity of a big family business it becomes impersonal, and I wanted something to remember him by. We were more alike than you might suppose. He got away young and devoted himself to his art collections; I think he pretended to be more impractical than he was to escape the burdens of business. He was extraordinarily sharp, you know, after a bargain. Steal a dead fly from a blind spider, he would, when he was among dealers. But he was kind to lots of painters, as well, so I suppose it cancels out, in a sort of way. But tell me, how did you know I was interested in musical manuscripts?”

“A friend of yours, and a friend of mine, told me: Miss Theotoky. We were talking one day after class about methods of musical notation in the early Middle Ages, and she spoke of it.”

“I remember mentioning it to her once, but I didn’t think she was paying much attention.”

“She was. She told me everything you said.”

“I’m glad to hear that. Her taste in music and mine aren’t very close.”

“She’s interested in medieval music, and in trying to find out what she can about earlier music. It’s very mysterious; we know Nero fiddled, but what precisely did he fiddle? When Jesus and the Apostles had sung an hymn, they went up into the Mount of Olives; but what was the hymn? If we heard it now, would we be appalled to hear the Saviour of Mankind whining and yowling through his nose? It’s only in the past few hundred years that music of the past has been recoverable, yet music is the key to feeling, very often. Something Hollier ought to be interested in.”

“Perhaps Maria is doing it for Hollier; she seems to be very much under his spell.”

“Did I hear the name of Maria?” said McVarish, joining us. “That marvellous creature pops up everywhere. By the way, I hope you didn’t think I was being too familiar with her presence this afternoon? But ever since I spotted that little Venus among your uncle’s bits and pieces I have been obsessed by its resemblance to her, and now I’ve had it home and studied it in detail I’m even more delighted. I shall have her always near me—tying her sandal, so innocently, as if she were quite alone. If you ever want a reminder, Arthur, do come to my place. She’s very fond of you, you know.”

“What makes you think so?” said Arthur.

“Because I know a lot about what she thinks. A friend of mine whom you don’t know, I believe—a most amusing creature called Parlabane—knows her intimately. He devils for Hollier—calls himself Hollier’s famulus, which is delightful—and so he sees a lot of Maria, who works in Hollier’s rooms. They have great old chats, and Maria tells him everything. Not directly, I gather, but Parlabane is an old hand at reading between lines. And though of course Hollier is her great enthusiasm, she likes you a lot. As who wouldn’t, my dear boy.”

He touched Arthur lightly on the sleeve, as he had touched me before this evening. Urky is a great toucher.

“You mustn’t imagine I’m trying to muscle in,” he went on, “although Maria comes to my lectures and sits in the front row. Which gives me immense pleasure, because students are not, on the whole, decorative, and I can’t resist decorative women. I adore women, you know. Unlike Rabelais, but very much like Sir Thomas Urquhart, I think.” And he moved on to say good night to the Warden.

“Sir Thomas Urquhart?” said Arthur. “Oh, yes, the translator. I’m beginning to hate the sound of his name.”

“If you know Urky, you get a good deal of Sir Thomas,” I said. Then I added, spitefully I admit but Urky maddened me: “If you look him up in the dictionary of biography, you will find that it is widely agreed that Sir Thomas was crazy with conceit.”

Arthur said nothing, but he winked. Then he too moved off to take leave of the Warden, and I remembered that as Sub-Warden I ought to call a taxi for Mrs. Skeldergate. And when that had been done I hurried up to my rooms over the gate, to note down, in The New Aubrey, what I had heard during the evening. How they chirped over their cups.

I was beginning to dread The New Aubrey. What I had begun as a portrait of the University, drawn from the life, was becoming altogether too much like a personal diary, and a confessional diary of the embarrassing sort. Not nearly enough about other people; far too much about Simon Darcourt.

I don’t drink much, and what I drink doesn’t affect me, but I had a feeling after our Guest Night that I wasn’t myself in a way that a few glasses of wine, taken between six o’clock and ten, could hardly explain. I had finished a day that ought to have been enjoyable; some good work done in the morning, the completion of the Cornish business in the afternoon, and the acquisition of two first-rate Beerbohms that had never been published, and thus were very much my own and a sop to that desire for solitary possession which collectors know so well; Guest Night, which had gone well, and the Cornish executors entertained at my own expense. But I was melancholy.

A man with a theological training ought to know how to deal with that. A little probing brought the cause to light. It was Maria.

She was a first-rate student, and she was a girl of great personal charm. Nothing unusual there. But she played far too large a part in my thoughts. As I looked at her, and listened to her in class, I was troubled by what I knew about her and Clement Hollier; the fact that he had once had her on his wretched old sofa was not pleasing, but it was the kind of thing that happens and there is no use making a fuss over it—especially as Hollier had seemed to be in the state of lowered perception at the time that Roberta Burns had so briskly described. But Hollier thought she was in love with him, and that troubled me. Whatever for? Of course he was a fine scholar, but surely she wasn’t such a pinhead as to fall for an attribute of a man who was in so many other ways wholly unsuitable. He was handsome, if you like craggy, gloomy men who look as if they were haunted, or perhaps prey to acid indigestion. But, apart from his scholarship, Hollier was manifestly an ass.

No, Darcourt, that is unjust. He is a man of deep feeling; look how loyal he is to that miserable no-hoper John Parlabane. Damn Parlabane! He had been prattling to McVarish about Maria, and when Urky said “reading between the lines” it was obvious that they had both been speculating in the wholly unjustified way men of unpleasant character speculate about women.

Fond of Arthur Cornish, indeed! No, “Very fond” had been his expression. More exaggeration. But was it? Why had she dragged Arthur Cornish into her conversation with me, when we were talking about medieval musical notation? Something about his uncle’s collection, but had that been relevant? I know well enough how people in love drag the name of the loved one into every conversation, simply to utter that magical word, to savour it on the tongue.

The trouble with you, Darcourt, is that you are allowing this girl to obsess you.

More inner tumult, upon which I tried to impose some of the theological stricture I had learned as a method of examining conscience.