in her a leaden morality. But her conscience did not forbid
the unaccustomed thrill of a lover's attendance and the subsequent lie
of convenience. No one had ever encouraged her to think things out or
to formulate her purposes. Consequently she drifted placidly, and if
conscience whispered or Martin suggested another evening's pleasure, it
was too much trouble to listen to the one or refuse the other.

Mods were to begin on a Thursday. On the preceding Saturday Martin was
going down to the Berrisfords to seek fresh air and to forget the
existence of Demosthenes. He had wanted to stay and cram to the end,
but ultimately he had yielded to Petworth's advice and decided to go.
At eleven o'clock on the Friday night he was wandering back alone
through Osney. He had walked with May along the Eynsham Road: it had
been a perfect night with the moon hanging over Wytham Woods like a
silver slit in a cloth of blackest fabric. But May didn't bother about
the moon, and they had gone to a deserted barn where they had met
before, a good enough place for lovers in the mood but otherwise
draughty and forlorn. They had not quarrelled: neither had alluded to
the possibility of such a thing. But Martin had thought May dull and
May had thought Martin cold. The evening had not been a success, and
the fact that it had not been a confessed failure made it all the
worse, for Martin had arranged to see her again on Wednesday night
before his exam.

Now, as he tramped slowly home, he fell into a great anger and despair.
That night at least he might have devoted to learning the long lists of
words which he had so laboriously compiled. But he hadn't: he had
dallied in an outhouse with a girl who didn't think, didn't know,
didn't care, a girl whose only attraction lay in her wistful eyes and
an engaging atmosphere of loneliness. To have to philander in back
roads and crumbling sheds--how revolting it all was when he looked at
it in cold blood. To have to--well, perhaps he hadn't to, but life,
with its misery of Mods, wasn't much fun if he didn't. This was the
only escape. Martin wanted to meet women openly, if he had to meet
them, and to face things clearly and honestly. But he couldn't do so
because of morality, official morality with its peeping proctors and
furtive pettiness. How Lawrence and he had thrashed it all out! It
seemed that men should have honourable and reasonable relations with
women, and yet, because of decency, i