de and
pretence, discreetly praising and blaming men whom he had never read,
never, thank God, would read, all the remoter 'C's,' Cowley, Cowper,
Crabbe.

His nerves were all frayed. He hated the statues of Liebnitz and Locke
and Plato ... what had Platonism to do with that sordid spot? He hated
the Burlington Arcade with its lingering odour of stale scent: a woman
smiled at him horribly and he hated her. He hated Piccadilly because
it was dusty and deserted, and he hated the tea he drank because it was
too hot and there were flies on the table. He hated himself for not
remembering a quotation. How plain it all seemed now, and yet he had
missed it.

He met Freda at half-past six at Waterloo and they went down to Thames
Ditton. The river was crowded with punts and canoes and boats of every
kind, but they joined the press. As darkness fell lights began to
glitter like jewels across the water. Here and there a Chinese lantern
swung on a prow, the glowing end of a cigarette flickered and was gone.
Ripples of laughter floated from a nook where people supped, the
popping of a cork, the tinkling of distant music. But if there was not
solitude or silence, there was at least a breeze that shook the parched
leaves and whispered in bough and rush. Martin found a vacant berth
deeply curtained with bushes and low-hanging trees and there they made
fast the punt and lingered.

They talked a little of his exam and of his prospects. And then they
talked of her prospects.

"You're too fine for it," he said suddenly. It was what he had said so
often before, but now she was no longer maternal or cheerily scornful
of his protests. She yielded alike to his thought and to his touch.
Never had she so yielded before. For Martin the world became a great,
black silence: the only thing he knew was the closeness of her. That
she trusted him, and wanted him was joy: that she was there, beside
him, his, was magic. Because she for the first time yielded, he for
the first time forgot. Never before had he quite escaped from himself,
from considering the impression that he was likely to be making, from
worrying fears and self-conscious timidity. Now he was free. He was
aware only of the intangible fragrance of her hair, the warmth and
movement of her body, the curve and rhythm of her limbs, the instant
claim of her fragility. Everything became different.

At the end of the month Freda had a fortnight's holiday and went to an