_O mors quam amara est memoria tua homini pacem habenti in substantiis suis...._ How with one tongue those both cried alas! And then in the end, sleep and a timeless peace. _Nox est perpetua una dormienda._ There were so many tumbling and leaping about in your head you could go on for ever.... Now to study them. What did it all mean? Was there any thread running through them with which to make a theory? Anybody could write down strings of quotations,--but a student of English literature was expected to deal in theories. It was something to do with the sound ... the way sound made images, shell within shell of them softly unclosing ... the way words became colours and scents ... and the surprise when it happened, the ache of desire, the surge of excitement, the sense of fulfilment, the momentary perception of something unknowable.... Some sort of truth, some answer to the question: What is poetry?... No it was no good. But it had been very enjoyable, writing things down like that and repeating them to yourself. Jennifer was half asleep with her head upon the window-sill. The bowl of fruit burned in the dimness. How like Jennifer was her room! Yellow painted chairs, a red and blue rug on the hearth, cowslips in coloured bowls and jars, one branch of white lilac in a tall blue vase; the guitar with its many ribbons lying on the table; a silken Italian shawl, embroidered with great rose and blue and yellow flowers flung over the screen: wherever you looked colour leapt up at you; she threw colour about in profuse disorder and left it. Her hat of pale green straw with its little wreath of clover lay on the floor. Nobody else had attractive childish hats like hers. A wide green straw would remind you of Jennifer to the end of your life; and beneath it you would see the full delicious curve of her cheek and chin, her deep-shadowed eyes, her lips that seemed to hold all life in their ardent lines. She turned her head and smiled sleepily. ‘Hullo!’ said Judith. ‘Haven’t we been quiet? I’ve done such a lot of work.’ ‘I’ve done none. I couldn’t remember the difference between ethics and æsthetics. What rot it all is!... Now listen and we’ll hear a nightingale. He’s tuning up.’ They leaned out of the window. The icy aching flute in the cedar called and called on two or three notes, uncertain, dissatisfied; then all at once found itself and bubbled over in rich and complicated rapture. Jennifer was listening, tranced in her strange immobility, as if every other sense were suspended to allow her to hear aright. She roused herself at last as Judith bent to kiss her good night. ‘Good night my--darling--darling--’ she said. They stared at each other with tragic faces. It was too much, this happiness and beauty. The end of the first year. 8