enough, accurately too, she is always brought up by this question as she
reaches Clare Bridge: "But if I met him, what should I wear?"--and then,
taking her way up the avenue towards Newnham, she lets her fancy play
upon other details of men's meeting with women which have never got into
print. Her lectures, therefore, are not half so well attended as those
of Cowan, and the thing she might have said in elucidation of the text
for ever left out. In short, face a teacher with the image of the taught
and the mirror breaks. But Cowan sipped his port, his exaltation over,
no longer the representative of Virgil. No, the builder, assessor,
surveyor, rather; ruling lines between names, hanging lists above doors.
Such is the fabric through which the light must shine, if shine it can--
the light of all these languages, Chinese and Russian, Persian and
Arabic, of symbols and figures, of history, of things that are known and
things that are about to be known. So that if at night, far out at sea
over the tumbling waves, one saw a haze on the waters, a city
illuminated, a whiteness even in the sky, such as that now over the Hall
of Trinity where they're still dining, or washing up plates, that would
be the light burning there--the light of Cambridge.

"Let's go round to Simeon's room," said Jacob, and they rolled up the
map, having got the whole thing settled.

All the lights were coming out round the court, and falling on the
cobbles, picking out dark patches of grass and single daisies. The young
men were now back in their rooms. Heaven knows what they were doing.
What was it that could DROP like that? And leaning down over a foaming
window-box, one stopped another hurrying past, and upstairs they went
and down they went, until a sort of fulness settled on the court, the
hive full of bees, the bees home thick with gold, drowsy, humming,
suddenly vocal; the Moonlight Sonata answered by a waltz.