ably right.

On Monday she went back to town; she had forbidden him to renew the
subject and they had talked as they originally talked, with argument,
like undergraduates. But for Martin such conversation had lost its
charm and he knew such relations could not last. Still he wanted her
to be a martyr dragged to the altar of commercialism and she had
refused to think of martyrdom. Her happiness galled him, as he
confessed to himself with shame. Yet less than ever was he able to
forget her.

So Freda went. And Martin remained to work feebly and to write long
letters and to sit fidgeting until the second post had come in and he
knew that to-day at any rate she hadn't answered.

But sometimes she did answer, shortly indeed but kindly; and he was
happy then.

In January he went back to Oxford and the further settling of
philosophy on a business basis. Amid all the energies and diversions
of terms the memory of Freda did not vanish nor even fade. Hitherto
the postman had been neglected in Martin's survey of the passers-by,
but now he was more important than any one even of the other sex.
Martin had never before noticed how many posts there were in a day, but
now he knew all about it.

VII

On an evening of early June Martin, Rendell and Lawrence punted up a
backwater of the Thames. It was cool on the water's surface and a
lingering remnant of breeze stole across the silent meadows and played
gently with the willows. They had escaped from Oxford and the
gas-works, from gramophones and the university boathouse. It was a
special haunt of their own to which they had come, one of Hinksey's
unpathed waters, very narrow and remote. At length they made fast to a
stump of wood and smoked in peace.

It was all over. They had lived through a week of sweltering agony, of
darting to the Schools in cap and gown and stuffy clothes, of darting
out again to see how many words they had got wrong in their
translation. Such is the dignity of Greats. Abiding by their plans,
they had worked their philosophy according to schedule and answered
their questions on grimly practical lines. They hadn't made bold to
know about Beauty.

"Well," said Rendell, "that's the end of that."

"What?" yawned Martin. He was tired alike by his exertions and recent
celebration of the end.

"Of everything."

"Edified?"

"I think so. It's been rather majestic somehow. To have to know about
everything and keep a theory about ever