“Considering that we are devoting our whole lives-”

“Even for a man, it is not always easy to say-”

Their common readiness confounded their good intention. Each broke off and begged the other’s pardon, and Miss Barton went on unchecked:

“It is not altogether wise-or convincing-to show so much animus against married women. It was the same unreasonable prejudice that made you get that scout removed from your staircase.”

“I object,” said Miss Hillyard, with a heightened colour, “to this preferential treatment. I do not see why we should put up with slackness on duty because a servant or a secretary happens to be a widow with children. I do not see why Annie should be given a room to herself in the Scouts’ Wing, and charge over a corridor, when servants who have been here for longer than she has have to be content to share a room. I do not-”

“Well,” said Miss Stevens, “I think she is entitled to a little consideration. A woman who has been accustomed to a nice home of her own-”

“Very likely,” said Miss Hillyard. “At any rate, it was not my lack of consideration that led to her precious children being placed in the charge of a common thief.”

“I was always against that,” said the Dean.

“And why did you give in? Because poor Mrs. Jukes was such a nice woman and had a family to keep. She must be considered and rewarded for being fool enough to marry a scoundrel. What’s the good of pretending that you put the interests of the College first, when you hesitate for two whole terms about getting rid of a dishonest porter, because you’re so sorry for his family?”

“There,” said Miss Allison, “I entirely agree with you. The College ought to come first in a case like that.”

“It ought always to come first. Mrs. Goodwin ought to see it, and resign her post if she can’t carry out her duties properly.” She stood up. “Perhaps, however, it is as well that she should be away and stay away. You may remember that, last time she was away, we had no trouble from anonymous letters or monkey-tricks.”

Miss Hillyard put down her coffee-cup and stalked out of the room. Everybody looked uncomfortable.

“Bless my heart!” said the Dean.

“Something very wrong there,” said Miss Edwards, bluntly.

“She’s so prejudiced,” said Miss Lydgate. “I always think it’s a very great pity she never married.”

Miss Lydgate had a way of putting into language that a child could understand things which other people did not say, or said otherwise. “I should be sorry for the man, I must say,” observed Miss Shaw; “but perhaps I am showing an undue consideration for the male sex. One is almost afraid to open one’s mouth.”

“Poor Mrs. Goodwin!” exclaimed the Bursar. “The very last person!”

She got up angrily and went out. Miss Lydgate followed her. Miss Chilperic, who had said nothing, but looked quite alarmed, murmured that she must get along to work. The Common Room slowly cleared, and Harriet was left with the Dean.

“Miss Lydgate has the most terrifying way of hitting the nail on the head,‘ said Miss Martin; ”because it is obviously much more likely that-”

“A great deal more likely,” said Harriet.

Mr. Jenkyn was a youngish and agreeable don whom Harriet had met the previous term at a party in North Oxford -the same party, in fact, which had led to her acquaintance with Mr. Reginald Pomfret. He resided at Magdalen, and was incidentally one of the pro-Proctors. Harriet had happened to say something to him about the Magdalen May-day ceremony, and he had promised to send her a ticket for the Tower. Being a scientist and a man of scrupulously exact mind, he remembered his promise; and the ticket duly arrived.

None of the Shrewsbury S.C.R. was going. Most of them had been up on May mornings before. Miss de Vine had not; but though she had been offered tickets, her heart would not stand the stairs. There were students who had received invitations; but they were not students whom Harriet knew. She therefore set off alone, well before sunrise, having made an appointment to meet Miss Edwards when she came down and take an outrigger down to the Isis for a pipe-opener before having breakfast on the river.

The choristers had sung their hymn. The sun had risen, rather red and angry, casting a faint flush over the roofs and spires of the waking city. Harriet leaned over the parapet, looking down upon the heartbreaking beauty of the curved High Street, scarcely disturbed as yet by the roar of petrol-driven traffic. Under her feet, the tower began to swing to the swinging of the bells. The little group of bicyclists and pedestrians far below began to break up and move away. Mr. Jenkyn came up, said a few pleasant words, remarked that he had to hurry off to go bathing with a friend at Parson’s Pleasure; there was no need for her to hurry-could she get down the stairs all right alone?

Harriet laughed and thanked him, and he took leave of her at the stair head. She moved to the East side of the tower. There lay the river and Magdalen Bridge, with its pack of punts and canoes. Among them, she distinguished the sturdy figure of Miss Edwards, in a bright orange jumper. It was wonderful to stand so above the world, with a sea of sound below and an ocean of air above, all mankind shrunk to the proportions of an ant-heap. True, a cluster of people still lingered upon the tower itself-her companions in this airy hermitage. They too, spell-bound with beauty-

Great Scott! What was that girl trying to do?

Harriet made a dive at the young woman who was just placing one knee on the stonework and drawing herself up between two crenellations of the parapet.

“Here!” she said, “you mustn’t do that. It’s dangerous.”

The girl, a thin, fair, frightened-looking child, desisted at once. “I only wanted to look over.”

“Well, that’s very silly of you. You might get giddy. You’d better come along down. It would be very unpleasant for the Magdalen authorities if anyone fell over. They might have to stop letting people come up.”

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t think.”

“Well, you should think. Is anybody with you?”

“No.”

“I’m going down now; you’d better come too.”

“Very well.”

Harriet shepherded the girl down the dark spiral. She had no proof of anything but rash curiosity, but she wondered. The girl spoke with a slightly common accent, and Harriet would have put her down for a shop-assistant, but for the fact that tickets for the Tower were more likely to be restricted to University people and their friends. She might be an undergraduate, come up with a County Scholarship. In any case, one was perhaps attaching too much importance to the incident.

They were passing the bell-chamber now, and the brazen clamour was loud and insistent. It reminded her of a story that Peter Wimsey had told her, years ago now, one day when only a resolute determination to talk on and on enabled him to prevent a most unfortunate outing from ending in a quarrel. Something about a body in a belfry, and a flood, and the great bells bawling the alarm across three counties.

The noise of the bells died down behind her as she passed, and the recollection with it; but she had paused for a moment in the awkward descent, and the girl, whoever she was, had got ahead of her. When she reached the foot of the stair and came out into clear daylight, she saw the slight figure scurrying off through the passage into the quad. She was doubtful whether to pursue it or not. She followed at a distance, watched it turn downwards up the High, and suddenly found herself almost in the arms of Mr. Pomfret, coming down from Queen’s in a very untidy grey flannel suit with a towel over his arm.

“Hullo!” said Mr. Pomfret. “You been saluting the sunrise?”

“Yes. Not a very good sunrise, but quite a good salute.”

“I think it’s going to rain,” said Mr. Pomfret. “But I said I would bathe and I am bathing.”