and a mezzotint from Sir Joshua--all very English. The works of Jane
Austen, too, in deference, perhaps, to some one else's standard. Carlyle
was a prize. There were books upon the Italian painters of the
Renaissance, a Manual of the Diseases of the Horse, and all the usual
text-books. Listless is the air in an empty room, just swelling the
curtain; the flowers in the jar shift. One fibre in the wicker arm-chair
creaks, though no one sits there.

Coming down the steps a little sideways [Jacob sat on the window-seat
talking to Durrant; he smoked, and Durrant looked at the map], the old
man, with his hands locked behind him, his gown floating black, lurched,
unsteadily, near the wall; then, upstairs he went into his room. Then
another, who raised his hand and praised the columns, the gate, the sky;
another, tripping and smug. Each went up a staircase; three lights were
lit in the dark windows.

If any light burns above Cambridge, it must be from three such rooms;
Greek burns here; science there; philosophy on the ground floor. Poor
old Huxtable can't walk straight;--Sopwith, too, has praised the sky any
night these twenty years; and Cowan still chuckles at the same stories.
It is not simple, or pure, or wholly splendid, the lamp of learning,
since if you see them there under its light (whether Rossetti's on the
wall, or Van Gogh reproduced, whether there are lilacs in the bowl or
rusty pipes), how priestly they look! How like a suburb where you go to
see a view and eat a special cake! "We are the sole purveyors of this
cake." Back you go to London; for the treat is over.

Old Professor Huxtable, performing with the method of a clock his change
of dress, let himself down into his chair; filled his pipe; chose his
paper; crossed his feet; and extracted his glasses. The whole flesh of