And so forth and so on-all along the towing path, all the way up the long avenue to the Meadow Buildings and all the way round Christ Church, from Hall to Kitchen, from Cathedral to Library, from Mercury to Great Tom, while all the time the sky brooded lower and the weather became more oppressive, until Harriet, who had started out feeling as though her skull. were stuffed with wool, ended up with a raging headache.

The storm held off till after Hall, except for threatenings and grumblings of thunder. At 10 o’clock the first great flash went across the sky like a searchlight, picking out roof and treetop violet-blue against the blackness, and followed by a clap that shook the walls. Harriet hung her window open and leaned out. There was a sweet smell of approaching rain. Another flash and crash; a swift gust of wind; and then the swish and rush of falling water, the gurgle of overflowing gutters, and peace.

14

It was a good storm,” said the Dean.

“First-class,” said the Bursar, dryly, “for those that like it and don’t have to cope with those that don’t. The scouts’ quarters were a pandemonium; I had to go over. There was Carrie in hysterics, and Cook thinking her last hour had come, and Annie shrieking to Heaven that her darling children would be terrified and wanting to rush off to Headington then and there to comfort them-”

“I wonder you didn’t send her there at once in the best car available,” put in Miss Hillyard in sarcastic tones.

“-and one of the kitchen-maids having an outbreak of religious blues” went on Miss Stevens, “and confessing her sins to an admiring circle. I can’t think why people have so little self-control.”

“I’m horribly afraid of thunder,” said Miss Chilperic.

“The wretched Newland was all upset again,” said the Dean. “The Infirmarian was quite frightened about her. Said the Infirmary maid was hiding in the linen-cupboard and she didn’t like to be left alone with Newland! However, Miss Shaw obligingly coped.”

“Who were the four students who were dancing in the quad in bathing dresses?” inquired Miss Pyke. “They had quite a ritual appearance. I was reminded of the ceremonial dances of the-”

“I was afraid the beeches were going to be struck,” said Miss Burrows. “I sometimes wonder whether it’s safe to have them so near the buildings. If they came down-”

“There’s a bad leak in my ceiling, Bursar,” said Mrs. Goodwin. “The rain came in like a water-spout-just over my bed. I had to move all the furniture, and the carpet is quite-”

“Anyhow,” repeated the Dean, “it was a good storm, and it’s cleared the air. Look at it. Could anybody want a better and brighter Sunday morning?” Harriet nodded. The sun was brilliant on the wet grass and the wind blew fresh and cool.

“It’s taken my headache away, thank goodness! I’d like to do something calm and cheerful and thoroughly Oxonian. Isn’t everything a lovely colour? Like the blues and scarlets and greens in an illuminated missal!”

“I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” said the Dean, brightly. “We’ll toddle along like two good little people and hear the University Sermon. I can’t think of anything more soothingly normal and academic than that. And Dr. Armstrong’s preaching. He’s always interesting.”

“The University Sermon?” said Harriet, amused. “Well, that’s the last thing I should have thought of for myself. But it’s an idea; definitely an idea. We’ll go.”

Yes; the Dean was right; here was the great Anglican compromise at its most soothing and ceremonial. The solemn procession of doctors in hood and habit; the Vice-Chancellor bowing to the preacher, and the beadles tripping before them; the throng of black gowns and the decorous gaiety of the summer-frocked wives of dons; the hymn and the bidding prayer; the gowned and hooded preacher austere in cassock and bands; the quiet discourse delivered in a thin, clear, scholarly voice, and dealing gently with the relations of the Christian philosophy to atomic physics. Here were the Universities and the Church of England kissing one another in righteousness and peace, like the angels in a Botticelli Nativity: very exquisitely robed, very cheerful in a serious kind of way, a little mannered, a little conscious of their fine mutual courtesy. Here, without heat, they could discuss their common problem, agreeing pleasantly or pleasantly agreeing to differ. Of the grotesque and ugly devil-shapes sprawling at the foot of the picture these angels had no word to say. What solution could either of them produce, if challenged, for the Shrewsbury problem? Other bodies would be bolder: the Church of Rome would have its answer, smooth, competent and experienced; the queer, bitterly-jarring sects of the New Psychology would have another, ugly, awkward, tentative and applied with a passionate experimentalism. It was entertaining to imagine a Freudian University indissolubly wedded to a Roman Establishment: they certainly would not live so harmoniously together as the Anglican Church and the School of Litterae Humaniores. But it was delightful to believe, if only for an hour, that all human difficulties could be dealt with in this detached and amiable spirit. “The University is a Paradise”-true, but-“then saw I that there was a way to hell even from the gates of Heaven”…

The blessing was given; the voluntary rolled out-something fugal and pre-Bach; the procession re-formed and dispersed again, passing out south and north; the congregation rose to their feet and began to stream away in an orderly disorder. The Dean, who was fond of early fugues, remained quietly in her place and Harriet sat dreamily beside her, with eyes fixed on the softly-tinted saints in the rood-screen. At length they both rose and made their way to the door. A mild, clear gust of wind met them as they passed between the twisted columns of Dr. Owen’s porch, making the Dean clutch at the peak of her rebellious cap and bellying out their gowns into wide arcs and volutes. The sky, between pillow and pillow of rounded cloud, was the pale and transparent blue of aquamarine.

Standing at the corner of Cat Street was a group of gowns, chatting with animation-among them, two Fellows of All Souls and a dignified figure which Harriet recognized as that of the Master of Balliol. Beside him was another M.A. who, as Harriet and the Dean went by, conversing of counterpoint, turned suddenly and lifted his mortarboard.

For a long moment, Harriet simply could not believe her eyes. Peter Wimsey. Peter, of all people. Peter, who was supposed to be in Warsaw, planted placidly in the High as though he had grown there from the beginning. Peter, wearing cap and gown like any orthodox Master of Arts, presenting every appearance of having piously attended the University Sermon, and now talking mild academic shop with two Fellows of All Souls and the Master of Balliol.

“And why not?” thought Harriet, after the first second of shock. “He is a Master of Arts. He was at Balliol. Why shouldn’t he talk to the Master if he I likes? But how did he get here? And why? And when did he come? And why didn’t he let me know?”

She found herself confusedly receiving introductions and presenting Lord Peter to the Dean.

“I rang up yesterday from Town,” Wimsey was saying, “but you were out.” And then more explanations-something about flying over from Warsaw, and “my nephew at the House,” and “the Master’s kind hospitality,” and sending a note round to College. Then, out of the jumble of polite nothings, a sentence she grasped clearly.