So up they went, past the island.

The feathery white moon never let the sky grow dark; all night the
chestnut blossoms were white in the green; dim was the cow-parsley in
the meadows.

The waiters at Trinity must have been shuffling china plates like cards,
from the clatter that could be heard in the Great Court. Jacob's rooms,
however, were in Neville's Court; at the top; so that reaching his door
one went in a little out of breath; but he wasn't there. Dining in Hall,
presumably. It will be quite dark in Neville's Court long before
midnight, only the pillars opposite will always be white, and the
fountains. A curious effect the gate has, like lace upon pale green.
Even in the window you hear the plates; a hum of talk, too, from the
diners; the Hall lit up, and the swing-doors opening and shutting with a
soft thud. Some are late.

Jacob's room had a round table and two low chairs. There were yellow
flags in a jar on the mantelpiece; a photograph of his mother; cards
from societies with little raised crescents, coats of arms, and
initials; notes and pipes; on the table lay paper ruled with a red
margin--an essay, no doubt--"Does History consist of the Biographies of
Great Men?" There were books enough; very few French books; but then any
one who's worth anything reads just what he likes, as the mood takes
him, with extravagant enthusiasm. Lives of the Duke of Wellington, for
example; Spinoza; the works of Dickens; the Faery Queen; a Greek
dictionary with the petals of poppies pressed to silk between the pages;
all the Elizabethans. His slippers were incredibly shabby, like boats
burnt to the water's rim. Then there were photographs from the Greeks,