came in for Hall; cold food for three, apparently at
half-a-crown a head, for some one he did not know; hot
food, a la carte--obviously for the ladies haunting the next
staircase; cold food for two, at two shillings--going to
Ansell's rooms for himself and Ansell, and as it passed under
the lamp he saw that it was meringues again. Then the
bedmakers began to arrive, chatting to each other pleasantly,
and he could hear Ansell's bedmaker say, "Oh dang!" when she
found she had to lay Ansell's tablecloth; for there was not a
breath stirring. The great elms were motionless, and seemed still
in the glory of midsummer, for the darkness hid the yellow
blotches on their leaves, and their outlines were still rounded
against the tender sky. Those elms were Dryads--so Rickie
believed or pretended, and the line between the two is subtler
than we admit. At all events they were lady trees, and had for
generations fooled the college statutes by their residence
in the haunts of youth.

But what about the cow? He returned to her with a start, for this
would never do. He also would try to think the matter out. Was
she there or not? The cow. There or not. He strained his eyes
into the night.

Either way it was attractive. If she was there, other cows were
there too. The darkness of Europe was dotted with them, and in
the far East their flanks were shining in the rising sun. Great
herds of them stood browsing in pastures where no man came nor
need ever come, or plashed knee-deep by the brink of impassable
rivers. And this, moreover, was the view of Ansell. Yet
Tilliard's view had a good deal in it. One might do worse than