And then he became aware of Pink Roses. He noticed her because of her ubiquity and partly, perhaps, because she was always alone: he noticed her in the Broad, in the High, at a football match in the parks, once in the cinema. She was not beautiful, not even pretty: otherwise she need scarcely have remained alone in a community so rapacious. Usually she wore a coat and skirt of dark blue and a little black hat with pink roses. Beneath her hat Martin had observed light fluffy hair done witchingly about her ears and he had been able to notice that she had a pleasing smile and the tiniest of dimples. But her features, too heavy to be piquant, were not strong enough to be striking. He pointed her out one day to Lawrence and demanded his opinion. "Oh, that's your Pink Roses," he said critically. "Pretty poor stuff." "She may be all right," answered Martin meekly. "She walks all right, but she has got a face like a milk pudding." Martin did not attempt to argue against this higher criticism. Lawrence, he thought, was an old dear but he certainly lacked perception. There was something about Pink Roses. And then one evening, when he was turning into a main street, he walked right into her. He smiled vaguely and apologised, but she had hurried past him and did not hear. He turned and watched her. She stopped outside the cinema and studied the programme: eventually she went in. Martin had meant to do an hour's work before dinner and began walking back to college. Soon he stopped again and stood vaguely on the pavement, gazing at the passing crowd. At last resolvedly he resumed his journey to the college and the poets. Five minutes later he was passing a shilling through the grille of the cinema ticket office. It seemed an age before a film ended and the light went up. Then he saw the Pink Roses flowering alone in the sixpenny seats. As soon as the pictures began he would go in her direction. But when the time came he felt self-conscious and afraid. 'Ridiculous ass,' he said to himself. "You desert Lucretius for Pink Roses and now you don't even gather the rose-buds." And then again: 'Who is the silly girl--after all? Here am I, a scholar of a college, deserting Lucretius for that funny little person! It's too childish.' So he rose to go out and walked instead to the sixpenny seats. The girl looked round to see who was coming next to her. "Hullo!" whispered Martin as though surprised. "Didn't I nearly knock you over in the street just now?" "Someone ran into me," she answered. "I didn't notice who it was." "I think it was me. I'm so sorry." "Oh, it didn't matter, thank you." She said it very nicely and Martin was encouraged to go on. It was rather difficult and he wished he was fortified by a sound dinner. "You come here a good lot?" he said at last. "Yes. Nearly every time the pictures change." "Don't you get bored?" "It's better than doing nothing." "But the pictures are so silly as a rule."