"In the old days," he said, "there would have been sounds coming from these windows. There would have been men coming light-heartedly from these staircases and crossing to one another. Now all is under military rule: the poor remnant left of undergraduate life--poor mentally and physically--this poor remnant counts for nothing. All that is best has gone, gone voluntarily, eagerly, and the men who fill their places are training for the Great Sacrifice. It's the most glorious and the most terrible thing imaginable!" May leaned down lower and the silence of the night seemed oppressive when the Warden ceased speaking. After a moment he said, "In the old days you would have heard some far-off clock strike the hour, probably a thin, cracked voice, and then it would have been followed by other voices. You would have heard them jangle together, and then into their discordance you would have heard the deep voice of 'Tom' breaking." "But he is at his best," went on the Warden, "when he tolls the Clusius. It is his right to toll it, and his alone. He speaks one hundred and one times, slowly, solemnly and with authority, and then all the gates in Oxford are closed." Drops of rain fell lightly in at them, and May drew in her head. "Oxford has become a city of memories to me," said the Warden, and he put out his arm to draw in the window. "That is only when you are sad," said May. "Yes," said the Warden slowly, "it is only when I give way to gloom. After all, this is a great time, it can be made a great time. If only all men and women realised that it might be the beginning of the 'Second Coming.' As it is, the chance may slip." He pulled the window further in and secured it. May pushed aside the curtain and went back into the glow and warmth of the room. She gathered up her knitting and thrust it into the bag. "Are you going?" asked the Warden. He was standing now in the middle of the room watching her. "I'm going," said May. "I've driven you away," he said, "by my dismal talk." "Driven me away!" she repeated. "Oh no!" Her voice expressed a great reproach, the reproach of one who has suffered too, and who has "dreamed dreams." Surely he knew that she could understand! "Forgive me!" he said, and held out his hand impulsively. At least it seemed strangely impulsive in this self-contained man. She put hers into it, withdrew it, and together they went to the door. For the first time in her life May felt the sting of a strange new pain. The open door led away from warmth and a world that was full and satisfying--at least it would have led away from such a world--a world new to her--only that she was saying "Good night" and not "Good-bye." Later on she would have to say "Good-bye." How many days were there before that--five whole days? She walked up the steps, and went into the corridor. Louise was there, just coming towards her. "Madame desires me to say good night," said Louise, giving May's face a quick searching glance.