sound and regular street. You either belong
to it or you don't. And if you do belong to it everybody knows that
you belong to it and has a notion of your habits and your time-table.
Martin and Lawrence soon found out about everyone, and their chief
topic of conversation was the late appearance of this man or the
frequent journeys of another, the new hat of the girl opposite or the
names and nature of the young women who came hustling out of St Cross
Road. They despised Chard and Rendell for their ignorance and wilful
neglect of the street and its population.

It was a soothing occupation to watch folk come and go. Soothing, too,
was the soft glory of the street itself as it curved away to the Broad
with its sombre harmony of pink and grey. Behind the sweeping
splendour of the way itself might rise a sunset sky of winter, blue
with the lustre of steel, a tower of strong darkness above the fading
glow. And then lamps would twinkle and windows pour golden floods into
the road and a man would think about having tea. All good men live in
Holywell when they "go out."

But it was not always thus. Often everything was ugly, and Martin had
indigestion after lunch and thought once more of May Williams. He
hadn't seen her at all: perhaps she had escaped from Botley. Really he
didn't care: astonishing how unattractive was the memory of that
affair! No, May had not been good enough, but there was a girl who
walked up and down the street: she too had roses in her hat, but the
colour was not the same. And she was different, remote and
inaccessible. Martin said nothing and did nothing, but he always
looked out when she passed on her way to and from shops: it gave him
more pain than pleasure to watch her pass by, and yet he kept on
looking.

And then there was Mr Cuggy. Cuggy was Martin's tutor in philosophy
and had the reputation of being the most muddled thinker in Oxford: his
claims were based on a certain article in _Mind_ which had broken all
records (already high in English Philosophy) for the amazing
technicalities of its jargon and the vile barbarity of its writing.
But of course he was a dear old man. In his youth a torrent of
Hegelianism had passed over him and he remained always a limp victim of
the drenching he had then received. He clung, this mariner shipwrecked
in German waters, to the rock of the Absolute and dared not relax his
grip because he saw no other prominence amid the devouring waves. And
e