name. Those were the symptoms of one who hoped against hope that he would be asked himself: even Winslow, who knew how much he was disliked, who had been rejected flatly at the last election, still had that much hope. But everyone knew that he must run Crawford in the end.
‘I don’t see any other serious candidate,’ said Francis. He asked, suddenly and sternly: ‘Lewis, which side are you on?’
It was painful to quarrel. There was a silence.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I can’t manage Crawford at any price. I see your case. But I still think this is a job where human things come first. So far as those go, I’m happy with Jago.’
Francis flushed, the vein was prominent.
‘It’s utterly irresponsible. That’s the kindest word I can find for it.’
‘We’ve got to differ,’ I said, suppressing the first words that came.
‘I can’t for the life of me understand why you didn’t wait before you decided. I should have expected you to discuss it with me.’
‘If you’d been here, I should have done,’ I said.
‘No doubt you’ve talked to other people.’
‘Of course.’
‘It will be hard,’ he said, ‘for me to think you reliable again.’
‘We’d better leave it,’ I said. ‘I’ve stood as much as I feel like standing–’
‘You’re going on with this nonsense?’ he shouted.
‘Of course I’m going on with it.’
‘If I can find a way to stop it,’ he said, ‘I promise you I shall.’
10: First College Meeting of Term
Trunks piled up in the college gateway, young men shouted to each other across the court, the porters’ trucks groaned, ground, and rumbled on their way round the stone paths. The benches in hall were filled, there was a surge of noise before and after grace; feet ran up and down stairs, all evening long. At night the scratchings behind the walls were less insistent; the kitchens were full of food now, and the rats, driven out to forage in the depth of the vacation, were going back. A notice came round, summoning a college meeting for a Monday, the first Monday of full term.
The meeting was called for 4.30, the customary time, just as each alternate Monday was the customary day; the bell pealed, again according to custom, at four o’clock, and Brown came down his staircase, Francis Getliffe and Chrystal walked through the gate, I looked round for my gown, all of us on our way to the combination room. The room itself looked transformed from when it was laid for wine at night; a blotter, a neat pile of scribbling paper, an inkwell, pens and pencils, stood in each place instead of glasses; covered with paper, the table shone white, orderly, bleak; the curtains were not drawn, though the wall lights were switched on, and through the windows came the cold evening light. The room seemed larger, and its shape was changed.
Its shape was changed partly because another table, almost as long as the main one, was brought in specially for these occasions. This table was covered with a most substantial tea – great silver teapots and jugs, shining under the windows, plates of bread and butter, white, brown, wholemeal, bread with currants in it, bread with raisins in it, gigantic college cakes, black with fruit and already sliced, tarts, pastries, toasted teacakes under massive silver covers. It was for this tea that the bell pealed half an hour before the meeting; and it was for this tea that we came punctually when we heard the bell.
Old Gay was already there. He seemed to have been there a considerable time. The rest of us stood round the table, holding our cups, munching a teacake, reaching out for a tart; but Gay had drawn up a chair against the table, and was making a hearty meal.
‘Ah. How are you getting on, Chrystal?’ he said, looking up for a moment from his plate. ‘Have you had one of these lemon curd tarts?’
‘I have,’ said Chrystal.
‘I congratulate you,’ said Gay promptly.
In a moment he looked up again.
‘Ah, I’m glad to see
‘I don’t see any other serious candidate,’ said Francis. He asked, suddenly and sternly: ‘Lewis, which side are you on?’
It was painful to quarrel. There was a silence.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I can’t manage Crawford at any price. I see your case. But I still think this is a job where human things come first. So far as those go, I’m happy with Jago.’
Francis flushed, the vein was prominent.
‘It’s utterly irresponsible. That’s the kindest word I can find for it.’
‘We’ve got to differ,’ I said, suppressing the first words that came.
‘I can’t for the life of me understand why you didn’t wait before you decided. I should have expected you to discuss it with me.’
‘If you’d been here, I should have done,’ I said.
‘No doubt you’ve talked to other people.’
‘Of course.’
‘It will be hard,’ he said, ‘for me to think you reliable again.’
‘We’d better leave it,’ I said. ‘I’ve stood as much as I feel like standing–’
‘You’re going on with this nonsense?’ he shouted.
‘Of course I’m going on with it.’
‘If I can find a way to stop it,’ he said, ‘I promise you I shall.’
10: First College Meeting of Term
Trunks piled up in the college gateway, young men shouted to each other across the court, the porters’ trucks groaned, ground, and rumbled on their way round the stone paths. The benches in hall were filled, there was a surge of noise before and after grace; feet ran up and down stairs, all evening long. At night the scratchings behind the walls were less insistent; the kitchens were full of food now, and the rats, driven out to forage in the depth of the vacation, were going back. A notice came round, summoning a college meeting for a Monday, the first Monday of full term.
The meeting was called for 4.30, the customary time, just as each alternate Monday was the customary day; the bell pealed, again according to custom, at four o’clock, and Brown came down his staircase, Francis Getliffe and Chrystal walked through the gate, I looked round for my gown, all of us on our way to the combination room. The room itself looked transformed from when it was laid for wine at night; a blotter, a neat pile of scribbling paper, an inkwell, pens and pencils, stood in each place instead of glasses; covered with paper, the table shone white, orderly, bleak; the curtains were not drawn, though the wall lights were switched on, and through the windows came the cold evening light. The room seemed larger, and its shape was changed.
Its shape was changed partly because another table, almost as long as the main one, was brought in specially for these occasions. This table was covered with a most substantial tea – great silver teapots and jugs, shining under the windows, plates of bread and butter, white, brown, wholemeal, bread with currants in it, bread with raisins in it, gigantic college cakes, black with fruit and already sliced, tarts, pastries, toasted teacakes under massive silver covers. It was for this tea that the bell pealed half an hour before the meeting; and it was for this tea that we came punctually when we heard the bell.
Old Gay was already there. He seemed to have been there a considerable time. The rest of us stood round the table, holding our cups, munching a teacake, reaching out for a tart; but Gay had drawn up a chair against the table, and was making a hearty meal.
‘Ah. How are you getting on, Chrystal?’ he said, looking up for a moment from his plate. ‘Have you had one of these lemon curd tarts?’
‘I have,’ said Chrystal.
‘I congratulate you,’ said Gay promptly.
In a moment he looked up again.
‘Ah, I’m glad to see
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