T \f-
 
 PATCHWORK 
 
 BY 
 
 BEVERLEY NICHOLS 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 1922 

 
 Copyright, 1922, 
 
 BY 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 
 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
 
 To 
 PAUL AND ALAN
 
 AUTHOR'S NOTE 
 
 It is the custom of novelists to-day, even when 
 writing obviously of public men or women, glibly to 
 inform their readers that these characters are entirely 
 imaginary. Whether such a fiction expresses a secret 
 wish that they had indeed been creatures of the brain 
 and not of the flesh, I do not know. I would merely 
 say that it is not a fiction in which I would myself in- 
 dulge. It would have been quite impossible, in writing 
 of that university from which I have so recently and 
 so reluctantly departed, to banish from my memory 
 the figures which coloured its stage so vividly, to try 
 to shut from my ears the echo of their laughter and 
 their talk. And so I may as well admit that a few — 
 a very few — of the characters in this book are founded 
 on fact. Where this has been the case I have been 
 scrupulous that the persons concerned should read the 
 manuscript before it was published. In no case has 
 any objection been raised. 
 
 Raymond Sheldon, however, the chief figure (he 
 would have hated to be called a "hero"), is, to the best 
 of my knowledge, an imaginary character. It is true 
 that he did many things which I myself did, but he 
 did them in quite a different way ; and though I admire 
 him very much, I do not approve of all his actions. 
 
 For the sake of unity certain happenings have been 
 transposed as far as their chronological order is con- 
 cerned. For instance, the Christ Church ball was held 
 
 v
 
 vi AUTHOR'S NOTE 
 
 in 1920 and not in 1919. I trust that these departures 
 from strict accuracy will not worry the general reader, 
 because apart from minor details such as these, I have 
 endeavoured to give as faithful a picture as possible of 
 the New Oxford, the Oxford which has emerged 
 from the chaos of war, and which has even yet to re- 
 cover her ancient tranquillity and many of her most 
 precious traditions. 
 
 B. N. 
 Cleave Court, Torquay. 
 February — June, 1921. /
 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 
 CHAPT1 
 
 PART I 
 
 !B 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I. 
 
 Entry 
 
 3 
 
 II. 
 
 Initiation 
 
 21 
 
 III. 
 
 Resolve 
 
 43 
 
 IV. 
 
 Crowded Life 
 
 67 
 
 V. 
 
 Ray Mixes His Colours 
 
 87 
 
 VI. 
 
 Coterie 
 
 IOO 
 
 VII. 
 
 Blue and Silver 
 
 PART II 
 
 119 
 
 I. 
 
 Midsummer Madness 
 
 149 
 
 II. 
 
 Reaction 
 
 165 
 
 III. 
 
 Hostility 
 
 184 
 
 IV. 
 
 Benedicite 
 
 207 
 
 V. 
 
 Applause 
 
 224 
 
 VI. 
 
 Purple 
 
 PART III 
 
 239 
 
 I. 
 
 Lavender 
 
 253 
 
 II. 
 
 The Return of the Abnormal 
 
 273 
 
 III. 
 
 Impromptu 
 
 286 
 
 IV. 
 
 Climax 
 
 296 
 
 V. 
 
 Anti-Climax 
 
 317 
 
 VI. 
 
 Ray Alone 
 
 34o 
 
 
 Peroration 
 
 347 
 
 
 vii 

 
 God gleaming red and gold in flame, 
 God thundering in sky and sea, 
 I daring to invoke Your Name 
 Pray now that of Your Majesty 
 This blessing may descend on me. 
 
 Grant that before my spirit sings 
 The plaintive mumbled songs of age, 
 And quickened life no longer springs 
 Across the ever-darkening stage 
 Whereover is my pilgrimage, 
 
 Before my sense of loss and gain 
 Is blurred to cold indifference, 
 Before I lose both joy and pain 
 Wherein is wrought experience, 
 And life no longer burns intense 
 
 Before this hour of soul's decline 
 To idle calm, self-satisfied, 
 Answer, O God, this prayer of mine 
 And send the Angel Death to guide 
 My soul upon that path of pride, 
 
 Where human weakness cannot kill 
 The vigorous male enterprise, 
 That brands upon the human will 
 The vision of Your splendid eyes 
 Smiling from Hell to Paradise. . . . 
 
 CLIFFORD KITCHIN.
 
 PART I
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 ENTRY 
 
 RAYMOND SHELDON sat on the floor 
 surrounded by the contents of all the drawers 
 in his room. 
 
 Outside in the London streets, it was pouring 
 with rain, and he had taken this opportunity of 
 tidying before going to Oxford on the morrow. It 
 seemed to be the first opportunity he had had. 
 Although over two months had elapsed since the 
 Armistice, it had been so wonderful to be at home, 
 to be free, that he had left everything till the last 
 moment. And now he found himself up to the 
 eyes in muddle. 
 
 However, it was rather a fascinating muddle. 
 He found it amusing to plunge his hands into the 
 middle of the heap and see what he drew out. 
 First it was an old safety razor — pathetic emblem 
 of the days when he had first found his cheeks 
 clouded by an apologetic growth of fluff. Next, a 
 packet of broken crayons, the brighter reds and 
 blues worn into clumsy little stumps, while the 
 pale anaemic greens and mauves were hardly 
 touched at all. Then an old pair of motor goggles, 
 with their attendant memories of glorious sum- 
 
 3
 
 4 PATCHWORK 
 
 mers spent in whirling through France and Spain. 
 
 He supposed, rather sadly, that he ought to 
 throw all these absurd things away. The safety 
 razor was out of order, he would probably never 
 want the crayons, and the motor goggles were quite 
 childish. However, it was not unpleasant to be 
 childish again. These heaps of miscellaneous rub- 
 bish represented his life till he had been eighteen. 
 And then for two years there was a gap, marked 
 only by an identity disc which somehow or other 
 had got mixed up with the other things. Ray hated 
 the gap and wanted to forget it, and perhaps that is 
 the reason why he threw the identity disc into the 
 fire with such unwonted energy. 
 
 He turned his attention to the heap again. He 
 ought to look through all those papers which lay in 
 formidable bunches by his feet. He leant forward 
 and picked one up. It turned out to be an essay 
 in comparison between Gladstone and Disraeli which 
 had been set him years ago at school. He smiled 
 as he turned over the crumpled leaves. How 
 absurdly childish it seemed now! Even his writing 
 had completely altered. Then, it had been timid 
 and round, with little fat "d's," and "i's" with 
 their dots dutifully hovering exactly in the right 
 place. Now, it was quite different, freer and more 
 flowing, with the dots of the "i's" blown all over 
 the place, typifying the mental chaos in which he 
 found himself.
 
 ENTRY 5 
 
 He threw away the essay and picked up another 
 sheet of paper. It was the programme of the first 
 concert at which he had ever appeared. The date 
 was 1909, and he was only eleven then, so that it 
 was not so bad to have been able to play even 
 Mendelssohn's "Spring Song" at that early period. 
 However, that had been but the first of many 
 successes, finishing up with a performance of 
 Chopin's first Concerto on his last day at school. 
 How he had starved for music in the last two 
 years! Perhaps one of the most wonderful things 
 about Oxford would be that he would be able to 
 have a piano of his own again. 
 
 He decided that he would keep the programme. 
 After all, he didn't know what he was going to do, 
 and whether he became a professional pianist, or a 
 barrister, or a diplomat, or a novelist — (and at that 
 moment he felt quite capable of being all four at 
 once) — it would always be interesting to have them 
 to look back on. For the same reason he decided 
 to keep his diaries. Like most diaries, they varied 
 extremely as regards the matter they contained. 
 The tiny red one, at the top of the pile, had 
 belonged to his private school days, and was filled 
 chiefly with notes about his "prep," and accounts 
 of the various stamps he had "swopped" — unused 
 Nicaraguas, triangular Liberias, "and a gorgeous 
 set of Malay States with tigers on." He decided 
 that he would keep the red diary, especially as it
 
 6 PATCHWORK 
 
 also contained the sad little account of his father's 
 death. He had written it out in a shaky, sprawling 
 hand, and had edged it in black chalk, now rather 
 smudged. 
 
 Ray put the diary in his pocket and turned 
 quickly to the others. They were more neatly 
 kept, but on the whole not so interesting, except 
 when he was suddenly shaken by a wave of intro- 
 spection. Then the writer would go on for page 
 after page, entirely ignoring dates, and covering the 
 as yet untasted Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, 
 and Saturdays with a passionate medley of the 
 present, so that when those days eventually came 
 along he had nowhere to write except in the margin. 
 After all, that is the principle on which many men 
 expend their lives, to say nothing of their diaries. 
 
 Diaries, paint-boxes, stamp-albums, childish 
 poems, old letters — what a mess it all was! And 
 then, what was he to do with all these photographs? 
 He picked them up indiscriminately. Here was 
 one taken at Nice, on his first visit to the Riviera. 
 There was his mother in her absurdly large hat, 
 shading the sun off his puckered face with her 
 parasol. Another showed him in a group at 
 school — a very frowning and earnest boy with not 
 too clean a collar. What a lot of them there 
 were — Ray in flannels, in an Eton suit, in a bathing 
 costume, in nothing at all except a rather inadequate
 
 ENTRY 7 
 
 sponge, and finally in the uniform of the Grenadiers. 
 Personally, he would rather have not been taken in 
 uniform, but his mother had insisted, and so he 
 had compromised by going to Bertram Park, who 
 was, as he said, the only photographer who wouldn't 
 make him look military. And certainly there was 
 nothing military about this photograph. Indeed, 
 had it not been for the uniform, it might have 
 been mistaken for a picture of a young artist, 
 painted by himself. 
 
 Ray sighed, and threw the photographs back on 
 the heap. Suddenly he looked over his shoulder. 
 
 "Hullo, mother," he said, looking up and 
 taking her hand. 
 
 Lady Sheldon looked at him and smiled. "Oh, 
 Ray, what a dreadful muddle!" 
 
 "Isn't it appalling? I'm trying to see what I 
 can get rid of." 
 
 She sat down by the fire. "Why do you want 
 to get rid of anything?" 
 
 .Ray got up and disentangled himself from the 
 general chaos. "Well, I can't keep all this," he 
 said. 
 
 Lady Sheldon looked vaguely at the pile. "No, 
 I suppose you can't. But I don't see why you 
 shouldn't, really." 
 
 "Well, what's the use?" He kicked a bundle 
 of old exercise books' so that the dust came from
 
 8 PATCHWORK 
 
 them in clouds. "They're all as old as the hills." 
 
 She laughed. "They aren't any older than you 
 are, Ray dear." 
 
 "Well, I feel centuries old now." He leant his 
 head against the wall. 
 
 A shadow of pain crossed her face. Lady 
 Sheldon knew only too well how deeply the war 
 had affected Ray. It is true that he had only had 
 two years of the army, and that only three months 
 of those had been spent in France, but to a nature 
 like his, intensely sensitive, intensely artistic, a 
 nature moreover which, apart from the minor 
 struggles of school life, had never known any suffer- 
 ing at all, three months in France might well 
 change his whole character, his outlook on life. 
 
 The war had indeed changed him. In what 
 way, he himself could hardly tell. He intensely 
 resented the idea of being changed. As soon as he 
 had come out of the army, he had thrown off his 
 uniform and shuddered with delight when he felt 
 once more the caress of a tweed coat. He was 
 going to forget everything, all the horrible things 
 he had been through. He was going to take up 
 life where he had left it off. 
 
 But somehow, it had not been as easy as he had 
 hoped. He remembered the positive shame he had 
 felt when he had sat down at the piano to try to 
 play a Chopin Etude, and had found that his 
 fingers refused to do anything that he wanted. It
 
 ENTRY 9 
 
 was like being suddenly struck dumb. In sheer 
 desperation he had practised six hours a day for a 
 month till he had got back, to a small extent, some 
 rudiments of technique. He remembered too how 
 he had opened a volume of Keats — Keats who once 
 had made him drunk with music and beauty. He 
 had not been moved in the least. Even the "Ode 
 to a Grecian Urn" left him cold. It had been the 
 same with everything — and Ray had found himself 
 wondering if he had any capacity for emotion left 
 at all. 
 
 However, that had proved only temporary. 
 Slowly at first, and then with a rush, old beauties, 
 old pictures, old songs — all had shown themselves 
 to him with their former magic — a magic intensified 
 by two years of absence. And the result had been 
 that he now found himself in a state of mental 
 chaos without parallel, not knowing whether he was 
 happy or whether he was sad. All he knew was 
 that he wanted to live, and that he was going to 
 Oxford to-morrow. 
 
 He glanced at his mother, who was kneeling 
 down in the middle of a little heap which she had 
 collected round her. 
 
 "What are you looking at?" he said, kneeling 
 beside her. 
 
 She pointed to the picture of Ray with the 
 sponge. "Oh, Ray dear, you were such a nice 
 baby."
 
 io PATCHWORK 
 
 "That sounds as if I wasn't nice now." 
 
 "•Don't be silly, you really were. You never 
 cried once — or hardly once — and every one said 
 you were the nicest baby they'd ever seen." 
 
 "I'm afraid you're being sentimental," said 
 Ray sternly. 
 
 She looked at him wistfully. "I'm afraid I 
 can't help being that." 
 
 Ray laughed and put his arm in hers. "Mother, 
 you are a perfect angel. Let's go and have 
 some tea." 
 
 During tea they discussed Oxford. 
 
 "I do hope Francis has packed all your things," 
 said Lady Sheldon. "He's getting so old now and 
 I'm afraid he may have forgotten something." 
 
 Ray smiled. "It doesn't much matter. In any 
 case I'll have a look round myself before I go." 
 
 "I'll come too." 
 
 "All right." 
 
 She looked at Ray. "It does seem so extraor- 
 dinary that you should be going to Oxford," she 
 said. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "I don't know exactly, but it does. Don't you 
 remember how we used to talk about it?" 
 
 "Rather." 
 
 "When you were at school, it used to seem so 
 marvellous. And then when you were in the army 
 — but I promised I wouldn't talk about that."
 
 ENTRY 1 1 
 
 Ray's face had darkened for a moment. 
 
 "But still, I do wish you weren't going, just 
 from my own silly, selfish point of view. You 
 seem only just to have come back. I often wonder 
 what the use of being a mother is, because one 
 never seems to have a chance of seeing one's son. 
 I wish in some ways I'd had a daughter." 
 
 "Oh, I say, really. . . ." 
 
 "No, of course I don't mean that. As a matter 
 of fact, I should have hated to have a daughter. 
 I'm sure she would have been hideous, and we 
 should have quarrelled dreadfully. And then she 
 would have married — probably some horrid creature 
 with no manners. I do hope you won't get married, 
 Ray, at any rate for simply ages." 
 
 Ray shook his head. "Nothing would depress 
 me more. I think the whole idea's beastly. In 
 any case I should hate to think I was old enough to 
 be married. Somehow, I know that if I ever did 
 marry, I should feel most awfully old." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Well — all the responsibility, and the fuss and 
 bother. And then — oh, I don't know, but it makes 
 me feel sick." 
 
 She looked at him gratefully. "I suppose I'm 
 very wicked, but I am glad. I do want you to be 
 what you are, and do all sorts of wonderful things. 
 I'm sure you will, at Oxford." 
 
 "What sort of things?"
 
 12 PATCHWORK 
 
 "Well, there must be heaps of things that you 
 can do. I don't know exactly what they are — I 
 wasn't thinking of work, really — or rowing, or any- 
 thing like that — though your father was a blue," she 
 added, with a little touch of pride. "I was thinking 
 of much nicer things — playing the piano, and 
 writing poetry and making speeches" (Ray had 
 been President of his school debating society) — 
 "you must know what I mean." 
 
 Ray nodded. Oxford, even though he had 
 never been there, as an undergraduate, at any rate, 
 seemed to hold out wonderful possibilities. He 
 might do anything at Oxford. . . . 
 
 They finished tea, and went upstairs. The rest 
 of the evening was occupied with getting his things 
 finally straight. Dinner over, Ray played the piano 
 for a little, and then went to bed. He ought, 
 perhaps, in his excited state of mind, to have dreamt 
 of future triumphs, but he did not dream at all. 
 He had time enough for that in the day. 
 
 Ray woke up early the next morning. As he 
 blinked his eyes and switched on the light, he 
 wondered why he had wakened. He usually slept 
 long after he had been called. However, it was 
 rather delightful to lie like this in a sort of semi- 
 consciousness. He could feel by the tip of his 
 nose, which was the only part of him visible, that 
 the room was extremely cold. Hence it was all the
 
 ENTRY 13 
 
 nicer to be so warm inside. Contrast, after all, was 
 the essence of real enjoyment. He found himself 
 thinking how ripping it would be to have a bed 
 enclosed in a glass case on a tiny island in the 
 middle of the sea. One could be in it as warm as 
 a cat, and watch the racing waves outside and the 
 rain beating pitilessly against the glass. If ever he 
 had masses of money he would have one built. . . . 
 
 How quiet Curzon Street was! It seemed to 
 have stopped raining outside. In any case he could 
 hear nothing, and if there had been any rain it 
 would be sure to patter against his window. He 
 rather wished that it was raining. It would add to 
 the sensuous comfort of his bed. He would have 
 loved to have closed his eyes and listened to the 
 steady drip, drip, and the rattle of the window 
 blinds in the wind. At school once, the window 
 had been left open over his bed and it had started to 
 snow. He remembered what fun it had been to 
 draw the bedclothes round him and watch the little 
 flakes settle on the red counterpane and gradually 
 melt till eventually they took advantage of the 
 privilege and penetrated to the limbs of the 
 occupant of the bed. However, it was worth it. 
 
 He drew the clothes round him again, and dug 
 a tiny pit in the pillow in which to snuggle his nose, 
 which was distressingly cold. How he managed to 
 breathe under such circumstances is a mystery. 
 However, he at once fell asleep again, and did not
 
 i 4 PATCHWORK 
 
 wake till two hours later, and then only by the 
 repeated assertions of Francis that his bath would 
 be getting cold. 
 
 He stretched himself, and waited for the im- 
 pulse to move him out of bed. And then suddenly, 
 with a shiver, he jumped out, detached himself of 
 his pyjamas, and hopped into his bath. 
 
 Lady Sheldon never came down to breakfast. 
 To have breakfast in bed was, as she herself ad- 
 mitted, her one vice. Ray, in some ways, was 
 rather glad. He hated seeing anybody, even his 
 mother, at breakfast, and considered that it was a 
 meal to be eaten strictly in private. Besides, he 
 liked to read the papers, which were so useful for 
 telling one what the date was. To-day was Wed- 
 nesday, January 15th. Term started the day after 
 to-morrow. He was glad he was going up early. 
 It would give him a certain amount of time to settle 
 down. 
 
 He went upstairs and into his mother's dark 
 bedroom to say good-bye. 
 
 "Good-bye, Ray dear," she said. "I do hope 
 you'll like it. I do wish you weren't going. You 
 can always come away if you don't want to stop — 
 and I shall probably come up as soon as you're 
 settled." 
 
 "Of course you will. I'm sure it ought to be
 
 ENTRY 15 
 
 priceless. I'll send you a line to-night to say how 
 I get on." 
 
 "Yes, please do. Good-bye, Ray." 
 
 He bent down and gave her a kiss. 
 
 At Paddington Ray looked round to see if there 
 was anybody he knew who was going to Oxford on 
 that day. Apparently there was not. He was 
 rather disappointed, as he did not particularly want 
 to have to make his entry into Balliol alone. He 
 wondered rather apprehensively if his first term at 
 Oxford really would be so different from his first 
 term at school. Of course he would have rooms of 
 his own, and all that sort of thing, and he wouldn't 
 have to do any work — but still there might be a 
 lot of senior people who would fuss round and ask 
 him to play games, and treat him like a fresher. 
 However, he comforted himself by the thought that 
 after all, in this first term after the Armistice, 
 nearly every one would be a fresher. So he didn't 
 care. 
 
 The train began to move off. Suddenly the 
 door was flung open and a suit case, followed by a 
 young officer, hurled themselves precipitately into 
 the carriage. 
 
 "I'm awfully sorry," began the newcomer, pant- 
 ing. Then he dropped the suit case. "Raymond 
 Sheldon, by all that's wonderful ! "
 
 1 6 PATCHWORK 
 
 "Steele! How perfectly amazing! Is the door 
 shut?" 
 
 They both laughed. 
 
 "Yes, it is," said Steele, trying it. "I had a 
 fearful rush to get in." 
 
 "I noticed that," said Ray. "But what are you 
 doing here?" 
 
 "I'm going to Oxford." 
 
 "Oxford! So am I. I say, this is great. You're 
 not going up to the 'Varsity, are you?" 
 
 Steele nodded. 
 
 Ray sat down and threw his hat in the air. 
 "But why didn't you let me know? I'm going 
 too. We're both going. Every one's going. Here, 
 open the window and let's get some fresh air." 
 
 Steele did so. 
 
 "But how could I let you know? I didn't 
 know where you were." 
 
 "No, that's true. But I've been in London 
 ever since the Armistice. I should have thought 
 we might have met somewhere." 
 
 "I've only just got back from Germany, 
 though." 
 
 "Germany! Then you are still in the army?" 
 
 Steele bowed. 
 
 "Well, how can you come to Oxford then?" 
 
 "I shall be demobilised in about a week." 
 
 "Oh, I see. By the way, what College are you 
 going to?"
 
 ENTRY 17 
 
 "Balliol." 
 
 Ray leaned back and beat a tattoo on the 
 opposite seat with his heels. 
 
 "Oh, I say, do shake my hand or do some- 
 thing. I'm for Balliol too. Thank the Lord I 
 got into this carriage. We'll be able to do every- 
 thing together. It's your first term I suppose, 
 isn't it?" 
 
 "Oh yes, rather." 
 
 "It's mine, too. I don't suppose that matters?" 
 
 "How do you mean?" 
 
 "Well — what I mean is, d'you think we'll be 
 treated like freshers?" 
 
 "I don't know how freshers are treated. But 
 nearly everybody's bound to be a fresher this term. 
 In any case everything will proably be in a God- 
 forsaken muddle, so there's no need to worry." 
 
 "No, I suppose there isn't." 
 
 They talked at random of the life into which 
 they were about to plunge. Ray was delighted to 
 see Steele again. He noticed sympathetically that 
 he seemed much older than when they had last met, 
 two years ago. His thin, sharp-featured face was 
 lined and pale. On his breast he wore a Military 
 Cross and a Mons Medal. 
 
 As a matter of fact, they had known each other 
 only for a very short time. Their first encounter 
 had been at a gas course in Surrey during the latter 
 part of 1917, and as they had been the only two
 
 1 8 PATCHWORK 
 
 intelligent people on the course, they had naturally 
 drifted together. However, their friendship had 
 been far more than a mere pis aller. They had 
 each of them displayed qualities which the other 
 admired. At the course it had been the custom for 
 the officers to take turns at lecturing on gas. Ray 
 had delivered a marvellous, and highly artificial 
 lecture on gas as it appeared to him. He had 
 ransacked the huts for coloured chalks, to draw 
 huge Whistler pictures on the blackboard, of yellow 
 gas sweeping over desolate plains strewn with blood- 
 red corpses (or rather, pale pink ones, for there was 
 no red chalk). He had invested gas with poetical 
 properties. He had floated on clouds of gaseous 
 eloquence. He had made of a gas mask a grotesque 
 disguise, savouring of the Grand Guignol. 
 
 Steele, who admired genius in any form, had 
 been completely captivated by this performance. 
 However, when it came to his turn to lecture, he 
 had performed a feat no less astonishing than Ray's. 
 He had discovered the philosophy of gas. He had 
 questioned whether gas was, in the Platonic sense, 
 the ultimate good, or rather the ultimate evil. Be- 
 fore red-faced and bemedalled majors he had waxed 
 eloquent over the moral qualities of gas. He had 
 evolved from gas an entirely new system of ethics. 
 After all, as Ray had remarked, gas was the usual 
 origin of ethical systems. At any rate, they both 
 got "distinction," and parted firm friends.
 
 ENTRY 19 
 
 And now, here they were, the war over, on the 
 way to Oxford! It was really astonishing. Ray 
 lay back and looked out of the window. Deep 
 tilted meadows, their wintry green washed vivid by 
 the rain, slid by the windows, radiant in the sun. 
 The pools in the fields were so many sheets of 
 silver. Telegraph poles flashed past, gloriously 
 black and straight against a sky of blue enamel. 
 
 Steele seemed to catch his mood. 
 
 "Full many a glorious morning hav.e I seen 
 Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye." 
 
 Ray smiled and finished the quotation — 
 
 "Kissing with golden face the meadows green 
 Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy." 
 
 The rhythm of the train played a boisterous 
 accompaniment to the music of the words. 
 
 "Pale streams," repeated Ray slowly, his eyes 
 on the many-watered fields through which they were 
 passing. "My God — it's wonderful. Don't you 
 feel fearfully happy?" 
 
 Steele nodded. 
 
 They talked, on and on, delightful intimate talk, 
 such as can only be accomplished to the accompani- 
 ment of an orchestra or a train. Reading passed 
 by, a red mass looming on the left. Clouds came 
 over the sun, but were blown away again by the
 
 20 PATCHWORK 
 
 time they reached Radley. After Radley, a final 
 spurt, and then the train gradually slowed down. 
 
 Ray took Steele's arm. 
 
 "Look!" 
 
 They were nearing the station, and for a brief 
 moment Oxford lay before them. 
 
 Spire after spire cut clear against the sky. Grey 
 domes and steeples rose superbly over the huddled 
 dove-coloured roofs. Dappled with gold, towers 
 and pinnacles lay dreaming in the sun.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 INITIATION 
 
 NEVER had Oxford seemed so superb as on 
 that brilliant January morning. Ray already 
 knew the city a little, because he had been up to 
 Balliol for a fortnight in the winter of 1916, to try 
 for an exhibition in modern history, which he had 
 failed to get. Steele too had been initiated, some- 
 what more successfully, into the mysteries of 
 Oxford, when he had carried off the senior classical 
 scholarship in 1914. But for both of them there 
 was everything to learn. 
 
 They climbed into one of a crowd of those 
 hansom cabs which Oxford has retained almost as 
 affectionately as she clung to her compulsory Greek- 
 There seemed to be something peculiarly fitting in 
 this mode of transport. It was like going back to 
 the nineties. They jingled along, dipping swallow- 
 like under the railway bridge, skimming lightly past 
 Worcester, down the bald expanse of Beaumont 
 Street, and through the sudden rush of traffic in the 
 Corn till they drew up at Balliol. 
 
 And there, for a time, they parted. Steele had 
 promised to lunch with a man at the House. Ray 
 
 21
 
 22 PATCHWORK 
 
 decided that after he had unpacked he would lunch 
 by himself and then see what happened. 
 
 He asked the porter if his things had all come. 
 
 "Mr. Sheldon, sir? Yes, sir. First quad- 
 rangle, number six staircase, second floor." He 
 indicated the direction and Ray noticed how like he 
 was to a now extinct type of Conservative states- 
 man. He also wondered if the rather nondescript 
 group of undergraduates who clustered round the 
 notice-boards were freshers or pre-war men. They 
 all had on exactly the same clothes — grey flannel 
 trousers and Norfolk jackets with leather buttons. 
 Ray decided that, whatever happened, and even if 
 it meant constant "debagging," he would never 
 appear in public in a costume of that description. 
 
 He went up to his rooms. On the stairs he 
 met a watery-eyed man of about fifty, almost com- 
 pletely hidden behind a huge and rather dirty green 
 apron. They surveyed each other with mutual 
 distrust. 
 
 "Are you my scout?" said Ray, rather 
 apologetically. 
 
 "Yes, sir," replied the beery one. 
 
 "Er — what is your name?" asked Ray. 
 
 "Landsdowne, sir. You're Mr. Sheldon, I 
 expect?" 
 
 Ray nodded. "I suppose you have to look 
 after some other people besides me?" 
 
 "Twelve gentlemen, sir."
 
 INITIATION 23 
 
 "Good Lord! That's rather a lot, isn't it?" 
 
 "Yes, sir. It is a lot. A great deal 'arder 
 worked we are, than wot we used to be. You 
 see," he said confidentially, "men is 'ard to get 
 now." 
 
 Ray agreed, and looked towards his door. 
 
 "But I've done what I could for you, sir." 
 Landsdowne shuffled into the room. "There's a 
 nice fire I've got for you, only you'll 'ave to be 
 careful with coals. Only allowed three of them 
 scuttles a week." 
 
 "Oh I say," said Ray. This wasn't a bit like 
 "Sinister Street." 
 
 "Sorry, sir, but them's the Bursar's orders. 
 Only three scuttles for each gentleman. 'Tain't 
 like wot it used to be," he said. "You could 'ave 
 set the chimney on fire every night afore the war 
 if you'd wanted. Some of my young gentlemen 
 did, once or twice," he added, chortling at the 
 memory of past conflagrations. 
 
 Ray looked at him rather disconsolately. 
 
 " 'Owever, sir, I dare say you'll be comfortable 
 enough. I don't know if this is 'ow you want your 
 things arranged, but we've got 'em in some'ow. 
 Bit of a job doing it, too, it was. That piano 'ad to 
 come in by the window." 
 
 "Oh, I expect I shall be all right," said Ray. 
 "By the way, can I have tea here to-day?" 
 
 "Yes, sir. I've got your tea for you from the
 
 24 PATCHWORK 
 
 stores. You'll find all that sort o' thing in this 
 cupboard." He indicated the Jacobean sideboard, 
 and shuffled lugubriously out of the room. 
 
 Ray sat down in front of the fire. Somehow, 
 this was not quite what he had expected. He had 
 thought vaguely of Oxford as a place where every- 
 thing would be as it always had been, where things 
 like meat coupons and coal rations would be for- 
 gotten. It was evidently otherwise. However, 
 probably that would only be temporary, and in any 
 case he would forget it when the other people came 
 up. As it was, the rather deserted aspect of the 
 College made such minor inconveniences more 
 noticeable than they would ordinarily be. 
 
 He went in to see what sort of bedroom they 
 had given him. It wasn't so bad — rather dusty, 
 perhaps, and a bit small, but he supposed they 
 couldn't help that. And anyway, it had rather a 
 charming view. The high windows looked on to 
 Broad Street, and faced towards the sun. Opposite 
 him, in the shadow, was a row of irregular old 
 houses, huddling together as though they were 
 laughing at something. He opened the window 
 and looked down on the traffic beneath. The street 
 was so broad that the people in it seemed to float 
 across. There were not many undergraduates 
 about yet. 
 
 He closed the window and started to unpack. 
 There was something reassuring and comfortable
 
 INITIATION 25 
 
 in the pyjamas which nestled neatly on top of 
 his trunk. At any rate this trunk was packed full 
 of his own things. There was no need to feel 
 lonely now. He unwrapped a pair of patent leather 
 shoes from their tissue paper, and placed them 
 affectionately on the chest of drawers. They were 
 the first of a regular battalion of shoes, and by the 
 time everything was out — dressing-gown hung 
 behind the door, coats hung up in the dark cup- 
 board, silver brushes sparkling on the window 
 ledge, and even a pink cake of soap lying com- 
 placently on the washstand — he felt that at any rate 
 he had a pied a terre, and that was as much as 
 at present he had any right to expect. 
 
 He went back into his sitting-room. Really it 
 might be made rather charming. The only difficulty 
 was that damned window in the corner which was 
 almost a room in itself, and which seemed to be at 
 once the target and the origin of every draught. 
 He decided that he would curtain it off and put a 
 bookshelf in it, and a large table, and use it simply 
 as a retreat in which to work. He supposed he 
 would have to do a certain amount of work, and 
 when the curtains were drawn nobody would know 
 he was inside. 
 
 The next half-hour was spent in getting the 
 pictures on the walls. Over the mantelpiece he 
 hung two Russian ballet designs of his own, bold 
 splashes of blue and silver which lit up delightfully
 
 26 PATCHWORK 
 
 the cool grey walls. Then there were two Medici 
 Corots, some Russian tapestry, and some blue china. 
 The latter he decided he would arrange on the side- 
 board. All he wanted now were some cushions, 
 which he thought must be quite modern, silver and 
 blue, and some lampshades. 
 
 However, he was not altogether satisfied with 
 his rooms. He had dreamed of age-stained panels, 
 and windows giving onto a slow river; deep book- 
 shelves in which reverently he might have placed 
 rare editions of Walter Pater and exquisitely bound 
 copies of the Decameron. A room in which he 
 might have cloistered himself, and stained the half- 
 light with magnificent and grand dreams. A room 
 in which all that was superb and splendid in Oxford 
 would have passed, shadowy and shod with silver, 
 before him. . . . 
 
 But all that belonged to the Oxford that had gone. 
 
 He sighed, and scribbled a hasty letter to his 
 mother and then looked at his watch. 
 
 "Good Lord, it's a quarter to two." He took 
 up his hat from the sofa, and then threw it down. 
 People didn't wear hats in Oxford. Thank the 
 Lord for that! Thank the Lord for a good many 
 other things too! He whistled a tune and clattered 
 cheerfully down the open stairs. . . . 
 
 The next few hours passed in a whirl. Ray 
 found that not only had he been mistaken when he 
 had thought that Oxford was deserted, but that he
 
 INITIATION 27 
 
 met many people whose very existence he had 
 forgotten. It was really rather remarkable, and 
 certainly not unpleasant, to meet so many people 
 in this way — boys he had known at school, now 
 grown up and adorned with little fair moustaches, 
 men he had known in the army, some of them of 
 very much higher rank than he had ever attained. 
 It was great fun to be particularly condescending 
 to the latter. 
 
 He met his late second-in-command in the High. 
 How different he looked now he had discarded his 
 brass hat and his "plus fours"! Ray gave him a 
 tired bow, whereas before he would have been 
 forced to give him a quivering salute, and asked him 
 to come to lunch, "some day." After all he was 
 only a fresher too. 
 
 He walked at random through the streets. How 
 fascinating all the bookshops looked! He would 
 make a complete tour of them soon. And then 
 what innumerable cigarette shops there were every- 
 where, every description of cigarette, every kind of 
 pipe, from an elaborate hookah with brass bells on 
 top to a long thin-stemmed pipe of white clay. 
 He went into Colin Lunn's and bought some 
 Egyptian cigarettes tipped with real violet leaves. 
 After all, there wasn't any harm in being a little 
 decadent to begin with. 
 
 By that time, it was time for tea, and he went 
 back to Balliol. Steele met him in the Lodge.
 
 28 PATCHWORK 
 
 They greeted each other warmly. 
 
 "Come and have some tea," said Ray. 
 
 "Thanks awfully. I should love to." 
 
 They clambered up the stone stairs. 
 
 "I say, this is a priceless room." 
 
 Ray smiled. "Wait till you see it in a day or 
 two. It isn't nearly finished yet." 
 
 "Well, it's jolly nice now. Ten times nicer 
 than mine. They've put me in a place which is 
 about the size of an average bathroom. I went to 
 the Dean about it and tried to get a move, but it 
 was no good." 
 
 Ray expressed his sympathy. He was, however, 
 at present too engaged in the novel experience of 
 making his own tea in his own rooms for the first 
 time, to pay much attention to what Steele was 
 saying. 
 
 He felt a sense of proprietorship over every- 
 thing, even the teacups splashed with crimson and 
 rimmed with blue, and the silver teapot specially 
 polished for him by his scout, and filled with tea 
 from the stores. Everything that he touched was 
 his own, to do with as he liked. He felt inclined 
 to ask everybody in Oxford to tea, to give them 
 all cigarettes, to play the piano to the whole of 
 Balliol. . . . 
 
 He jumped up, and still munching some anchovy 
 toast, played the opening bars of Schumann's 
 "Carnival."
 
 INITIATION 29 
 
 "That's what Oxford's got to be," said Ray, 
 "just Carnival and nothing else." He sat down 
 again. 
 
 After tea, Ray decided that he would go and 
 see the Dean. 
 
 "I want to get settled as soon as I can, and it's 
 impossible to do that till I know what work I've 
 got to do." 
 
 Steele nodded, and they went downstairs. 
 
 "See you in Hall?" asked Ray. 
 
 "Yes, rather. You'd better come round to my 
 rooms at about twenty past." 
 
 "All right." 
 
 Ray examined the black plate at the bottom of 
 the staircase at which he had arrived. Yes, For- 
 tescue was in this block. He wondered if he ought 
 to have put on a gown to see him. However, it 
 probably didn't matter much, because term hadn't 
 started yet. So he went up. 
 
 John Fortescue, commonly known as Tugly, was 
 in every way one of the most charming people in 
 Oxford. He was probably about fifty, but some- 
 how his face defied age in a way which was a per- 
 petual mystery to the average undergraduate. 
 Pink cheeked and with sparkling eyes, he gave the 
 appearance of a cherubic fawn which had, in a 
 moment of naughtiness during an otherwise blame- 
 less life, escaped from the green retreats of Chorley 
 Wood. Perhaps the most elusive thing about him
 
 3 o PATCHWORK 
 
 was his hair. It certainly was not grey and it 
 could not be described as brown. It sometimes 
 seemed to hanker after yellow, and here and there 
 were shadows of silver, but en masse it remained 
 unique. 
 
 Tugly was, in many ways, the social centre of 
 Oxford life. He was certainly, in more ways than 
 one, the father of Balliol. Although he probably 
 tutored more men than any other don in Oxford, 
 there was as little of the don about him as it is 
 possible to conceive. He resented, more than his 
 amiable features were capable of showing, being 
 called "sir." Ray had made this mistake when he 
 had first met him in 1916, and had met with a firm 
 reproof, after which they were firm friends, and 
 even occasional correspondents. 
 
 Tugly's rooms were as remarkable as himself. 
 From ceiling to floor the walls were covered with 
 photographs of undergraduates, past, present and 
 occasionally future. No human being, unless it be 
 the aboriginal negro, is so fond of being photo- 
 graphed as the undergraduate, and the majority of 
 such photographs seemed to find their way to 
 Tugly's rooms. There were artistic profiles, in- 
 teresting three-quarter views, stern full faces. 
 There were photos in which the face unfortunately 
 seemed about to be hidden by a large property 
 cloud, and photos in which, equally unfortunately,
 
 INITIATION 31 
 
 no clouds, property or otherwise, were present. 
 There were groups, in which three or four self-con- 
 scious young men frowned at the world as though 
 life were, as far as they were concerned, a very 
 hopeless business, and groups in which, from the 
 peculiarly happy expression on the faces of the 
 sitters, it was probably safe to conclude that the 
 photographer had just told them a story which 
 was not quite proper. 
 
 The rest of the room which was not occupied by 
 photographs was usually taken up by papers and 
 letters. As these were apparently public property, 
 and as Tugly did not appear to be in, Ray thought 
 it might be permissible to read some of them while 
 he was waiting. They were, on the whole, unin- 
 teresting. "Dear Sir," "Dear Tugly," "My dear 
 Tugly," "Dearest Tugly," there was even one ad- 
 dressed to "Dear Mr. Tugly," so universal had 
 John Fortescue's nickname become. Apart from 
 the letters, there were bills, little heaps of snap- 
 shots, college regulations, university statutes, and 
 piles of essays from the latest scholarship examina- 
 tion. These Ray proceeded to examine. What a 
 positively indecent knowledge of Queen Anne was 
 possessed by this creature of the spidery caligraphy ! 
 What a horribly mature historical style he pos- 
 sessed! He was quite certain that this one, at any 
 rate, would get a scholarship.
 
 32 PATCHWORK 
 
 He was turning to look at another when Tugly 
 came in, armed with huge tomes on the life of 
 Gregory VII., bound in scarlet leather. 
 
 "Ah — Ray — this is nice." He put the books 
 down. "Have you just arrived?" 
 
 "Yes, I got here this morning." 
 
 "And how are you feeling? Sit down, and 
 smoke and do all that sort of thing. I'm afraid 
 this fire's like the rest of the room — rather depress- 
 ing." He gave it a poke, and sat down on the 
 stool in front with his hands clasping his knees, and 
 looked at Ray out of the corner of his eye. 
 
 "You seem to look very flourishing," said Tugly. 
 
 "Do I?" 
 
 They both laughed. 
 
 "What are you giggling about?" said Tugly, 
 putting his hand on Ray's knee. 
 
 Ray sighed. "Oh, I don't know, Tugly — by 
 the way, may I call you that?" Tugly nodded 
 gravely. "I was only thinking how extraordinarily 
 pleasant it was to be here. How long is it since 
 I've seen you?" 
 
 " '16, wasn't it? You only have seen me once, 
 you know. And that was when you came up to get 
 a scholarship." 
 
 "Which I didn't get." 
 
 "Which you didn't get." 
 
 "All right," laughed Ray, "you needn't rub it 
 in. It was only just because it happened to be
 
 INITIATION 33 
 
 Balliol. I'm sure I could have got one anywhere 
 else." 
 
 "I'm glad to see you've got the College spirit 
 already," said Tugly. 
 
 "Yes, I suppose it is a good thing. D'you think 
 Balliol 's going to be nice, Tugly?" 
 
 "How do you mean 'nice'?" 
 
 "Well, do you think I shall like it?" 
 
 "Oh, you? Of course, that's another matter." 
 
 "No, but really?" 
 
 "Of course you'll like it. You're made for Ox- 
 ford. And anyway it rather depends what you 
 want to do. What do you want to do, by the 
 way?" 
 
 "Is this serious?" sighed Ray. 
 
 "Terribly." 
 
 "I mean, is it business?" 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 Ray kicked the stool. "It's rather a job having 
 to think after two years of mental stagnation." 
 
 "Oh no, it won't be. You'll find things much 
 easier than you expect. I think lots of people like 
 you are rather better for a certain amount of slack 
 time." 
 
 Ray shook his head. 
 
 "Oh yes, they are," repeated Tugly. "It's like 
 learning to skate in the summer. What are you 
 going to do?" 
 
 "In work?"
 
 34 PATCHWORK 
 
 Tugly nodded. 
 
 "Have I got to work?" 
 
 "My dear Ray — from you!" 
 
 Ray laughed. "Well, what do you advise?" 
 
 "Weren't you doing history before?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well, why don't you go on with that?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't know. Somehow the idea doesn't 
 appeal to me awfully. I hate history. It's so ap- 
 palling to have to learn a lot of dull rot when such 
 infinitely more exciting things are happening to- 
 day." 
 
 "Do you think infinitely more exciting things are 
 happening? I think, personally, that they're mere- 
 ly depressing and dull. Encyclical councils were 
 far more interesting than the peace conference. 
 And then think of the delightful clothes that people 
 used to wear." 
 
 "Yes; there's something in that, certainly." 
 
 Tugly smiled infectiously. "I thought that would 
 get you," he said, looking at Ray. 
 
 "But then history isn't all clothes. It would be 
 worth reading about if it were. But you can't get 
 an entirely sartorial degree, can you?" 
 
 "Not entirely. But, seriously, what do you want 
 to do?" 
 
 "That's the trouble. I really don't know. I feel 
 I want to do something new — that's all. And some-
 
 INITIATION 3S 
 
 thing useful. Couldn't I do French and Italian, or 
 something like that?" 
 
 "You could. But I shouldn't advise it myself. 
 You speak French far too well for an Englishman 
 already, and you'd learn more Italian in a month in 
 Italy than you'd ever pick up in Oxford." 
 
 "Well, English literature?" 
 
 "Coward!" 
 
 "Why coward?" 
 
 "Because it's the thing you'd do so much more 
 easily than anything else. Much better read some- 
 thing which you don't feel called to. That's educa- 
 tion — doing things you don't want to." 
 
 "I suppose really I ought to do law." 
 
 "Are you going to be a barrister?" 
 
 "My relations want me to be." 
 
 "Do you want to be?" 
 
 "Not fearfully." 
 
 "Then I shouldn't. In any case the law school 
 here's pretty feeble compared to the history school. 
 Besides, law isn't an education." 
 
 Ray sighed. Apparently there seemed no way 
 out of doing history. Somehow the idea did not in 
 the least appeal to him. He saw himself re-opening 
 dull old schoolbooks, renewing his acquaintance with 
 Queen Elizabeth — a woman to whom he would 
 never willingly have been introduced — meeting once 
 more the warts and prudery of Oliver Cromwell,
 
 3 6 PATCHWORK 
 
 hearing once again the faint literary echoes of for- 
 gotten wars, the intonation of bygone orators, dron- 
 ing down the centuries. 
 
 However, he supposed he had better do history. 
 Tugly seemed to think so, and Tugly probably knew 
 best. 
 
 They talked at random. Apparently Oxford was 
 going to be crowded out. Balliol itself would be full 
 to overflowing — many people were coming up whom 
 Ray had known in the past. Of course it was all 
 very exciting, but it was also going to be very dif- 
 ficult. Food, coal, light, servants — all these were 
 equally hard to obtain, and the undergraduate's life 
 was not going to be nearly as easy as it had been in 
 the past. 
 
 As Ray came away from Tugly 's rooms he won- 
 ered if he was really going to be so happy in Oxford 
 as he had imagined. On the whole he was well 
 enough pleased, and of course things hadn't got go- 
 ing yet. 
 
 It was nearly time for Hall, and he went across 
 to Steele's rooms. The quad was scattered with 
 groups of undergraduates laughing and talking. 
 He pushed his way through one of the groups and 
 ran up the stone stairs. A. N. STEELE. Yes, this 
 was the room. He opened the door. 
 
 Steele looked up from behind a huge packing-case 
 which was almost as tall as himself. 
 
 "Hullo, is it time for Hall?"
 
 INITIATION 37 
 
 "Almost — about five minutes, I think. I say, this 
 room's rather a wash-out, isn't it?" 
 
 Steele laughed. "It is pretty filthy. But it 
 won't be so bad when I get my things straight. I 
 don't know what these pictures will look like in 
 here, but they'll have to go up." He leant into the 
 packing-case again and drew out some Nevinson 
 woodcuts, still covered with sawdust. 
 
 "What are they?" said Ray. "Oh, Nevinson." 
 He glanced at the angular vivid lines of the draw- 
 ings, mostly of scenes in France, and shivered. 
 
 "Don't you like them?" Steele asked. 
 
 "Well, of course they're amazingly clever. But 
 they're the last things I should have had in Oxford." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Oh, just memories of things I'd prefer to forget." 
 He put the pictures down on the table. 
 
 Steele nodded absently. "I think they'd better be 
 hung rather high." 
 
 "Very high indeed, I suggest." 
 
 "It'll give a bit of height to the room, you see." 
 
 Ray laughed. They made their way into Hall. 
 
 In Hall Ray, for the first time, felt really at home. 
 Chance had thrown him into the centre of a vocifer- 
 ous group of very pleasant young men, mostly old 
 Etonians and Wykehamists, some of whom he had 
 already met in the Brigade. 
 
 He was greeted with effusion. Everybody talked 
 at the top of their voice, old nicknames were re-
 
 3 8 PATCHWORK 
 
 called, and the rest of the undergraduates were criti- 
 cised as "rather a piffling lot." 
 
 "Of course, that's the worst of Balliol," said a 
 languid youth next to him, who presented the ap- 
 pearance of an aesthetic Owen Nares, and who had 
 been nicknamed "The Geisha" at Bushey, "one has 
 to put up with so many peculiar people." 
 
 Ray turned to him. "How?" 
 
 "Well, Manchester Grammar School and all that 
 sort of thing. Of course they're fearfully clever, 
 but they're rather impossible in some ways. Most 
 of our people have gone to the House. They al- 
 ways say Balliol's full of niggers. . . ." His eyes 
 rested meaningly on a very swarthy Indian who had 
 somehow got into their circle, and who was conse- 
 quently eating with particular eloquence. 
 
 "My dear Arthur, don't be so horrid," said Ray. 
 He turned to the Indian and began a conversation. 
 It was not easy to talk to him, because his sole in- 
 terest seemed, apart from his soup, to be centred 
 in Lord Cromer, which he pronounced Lewd 
 Cromer. So Ray gave up the attempt, not, how- 
 ever, without the feeling that he had done at any 
 rate one kind action that day. 
 
 Balliol Hall is not a particularly inspiring build- 
 ing, in spite of its great size. However, filled with 
 undergraduates, it certainly presented an ani- 
 mated appearance to-night. There was an attrac- 
 tion too about the pictures which glared or smirked
 
 INITIATION 39 
 
 from the walls — bishops in sleeves of blue-white 
 lawn, cardinals in lace and scarlet, statesmen in 
 black with painted sunbeams lighting their harassed 
 foreheads to a benignity at once transient and 
 eternal, scholars dwarfed by immense tapestries 
 cunningly adjusted to disclose a view of complacent 
 oaks and jagged hills — even the master himself, 
 standing, somewhat inappropriately, against a 
 background of blue, powdered with fleur de lys. 
 
 "Who is that?" said Ray, glancing at the latter 
 portrait. 
 
 "That? Oh, that's the Mugger. Rather a dear, 
 and quite impossibly clever. We have to dine with 
 him sooner or later." 
 
 Ray wondered how he would enjoy this pros- 
 pect. 
 
 They were certainly rather a charming lot of 
 people. But Ray felt that they had not captured, 
 as yet, that Balliol manner which he himself had 
 so sedulously cultivated — the manner which As- 
 quith had once described as a "tranquil conscious- 
 ness of effortless superiority." There still lingered 
 in their laughs an echo of the parade ground, their 
 talk was not yet purged of the atmosphere of the 
 barracks. 
 
 The conversation turned, inevitably, to the sub- 
 ject of sex. Ray was rather bored. He wanted 
 to talk about Oxford. He watched the man oppo- 
 site him, a hearty Wellingtonian, exploring with
 
 4 o PATCHWORK 
 
 many split infinitives and more superfluous adjec- 
 tives the well-worn path from adolescence to the 
 first fall from virginity. How silly he was! 
 
 "Don't you agree?" said the speaker, turning to 
 Ray, and gulping half a tankard of ale to cool his 
 fervour. 
 
 "Don't I agree with what?" 
 "With what I was saying," said the other. 
 "I'm afraid I wasn't listening." 
 "You looked as if you were, at any rate." 
 "Oh no — I was merely looking at you." 
 Everybody laughed. "Do talk to us about sex, 
 Ray," said some one; "you used to be so priceless 
 in the Brigade." 
 
 "Sex?" Ray smiled. "Sex is either a joke or a 
 physical exercise." 
 
 "Oh, the Balliol manner already. I thought you 
 said you were going to give up making epigrams." 
 "So I am. Only that happens to be true." 
 He played with the idea, and grew wilful, turned 
 it upside down, tossed it hither and thither, let it 
 escape, recaptured it, clothed it in every possible 
 garment, coloured it with every possible hue. Ray 
 was a wonderful talker, and he knew it. Talking 
 to a sympathetic audience was after all one of the 
 finest arts, one of the most exhilarating recreations, 
 and to-night, his first night in Oxford, he felt he 
 could talk for ever. 
 
 By the time dinner was over, he found himself
 
 INITIATION 41 
 
 already the leader of a set. He invited everybody 
 to come on to his rooms. 
 
 The evening was, on the whole, a great success. 
 Naturally on a first night such as this, there were 
 some discordant personalities, which Ray decided 
 would eventually have to be weeded out, but en 
 masse they were charming enough. He looked 
 round on them with approval. There was Arden, 
 for instance, a tall, fair creature, rather like a Vik- 
 ing, at present engaged in playing a rag of "Nearer, 
 my God, to Thee" on the piano, and singing words 
 of his own at the top of a rather husky voice. 
 Bending over him was Ryerson, small, dark, with 
 hair smoothed back over an angelic forehead, who 
 had at once endeared himself to Ray by his habit 
 of saying very cynical things in a very tired voice. 
 At his side, sipping sherry and endeavouring, quite 
 unsuccessfully, to create smoke rings, was Arthur 
 Stanton, who had complained in Hall of the black 
 population of Balliol. There were at least half a 
 dozen others, in various states of excitement, and 
 they all seemed happy enough. There was some- 
 thing delightful about this party — the forerunner 
 of so many similar parties, parties in which the 
 whole of Oxford would eventually participate. 
 
 Ray, from his corner on the sofa, ceased for a 
 minute to laugh and talk. He wanted to visualise 
 the scene clearly. The room was misted blue with 
 smoke, and clouded with incense, for as soon as
 
 42 PATCHWORK 
 
 they had come in he had scattered some pine gum 
 on the embers, "to get the right sort of fug." The 
 grey walls were softened and shadowed, and from 
 them the Pierrots in their white frames seemed to 
 nod approval. The candles, flickering behind their 
 sapphire shades, lit the moon-tailed peacocks' 
 feathers on the mantelpiece to twitching life. 
 
 Ray was very sorry when they all went. How- 
 ever, he was pleased with the evening. He had, at 
 any rate, an entourage. 
 
 He blew out the candles, and drawing the heavy 
 curtains, opened the windows. The room was soon 
 filled with rain-sweet air. He drew the curtains 
 again, and sat down in front of the dying fire. 
 
 Well, things had started. The curtain had gone 
 up. . . . 
 
 He stretched out his arms, and laughed.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 RESOLVE 
 
 IT was not till nearly a week had passed by that 
 Ray really understand how different was the 
 real Oxford to the Oxford of his dreams. The first 
 few days were spent in making new acquaintances 
 and forgetting old ones* Everything seemed to 
 happen in such a whirl, with each day so many new 
 facets of Oxford life presented themselves, that he 
 had hardly time even to attempt to resolve this 
 patchwork of conflicting pictures and emotions into 
 any sort of consecutive pattern. So many friends 
 to meet, so many books to buy, and if the truth be 
 told, so many disappointments to face. Ray felt 
 that if he did not quickly take stock of his sur- 
 roundings he would completely lose what small 
 mental stability he had left. 
 
 One has only to look through the files of such 
 representatives of Oxford undergraduate opinion as 
 The I sis and The 'Varsity to see how Oxford has 
 changed. Apart from the depressing evidence 
 which appears in every advertisement that cigar- 
 ettes — really good cigarettes — could be obtained for 
 
 43
 
 44 PATCHWORK 
 
 five shillings a hundred; that The Daily News still 
 distilled the milk of pure Liberalism for a halfpen- 
 ny; that a dinner jacket could be bought and made 
 to fit for the ridiculous price of six guineas — apart 
 from all these irritating manifestations of a pros- 
 perity which was, after all, common to the rest of 
 mankind, there is evidence enough of a spirit which 
 seems now to have vanished for ever — the spirit 
 which a distinguished son of Magdalen caught so 
 perfectly when he wrote of "days of lyrical ardour 
 and of studious sonnet- writing ; days when one 
 loved the exquisite intricacy and musical repetitions 
 of the ballade, and the vilanelle with its linked 
 long-drawn echoes and its curious completeness; 
 days when one solemnly sought to discover the 
 proper temper in which a triolet should be written; 
 delightful days, in which, I am glad to say, there 
 was far more rhyme than reason." 
 
 It was days like that, days when Oxford had 
 really been Oxford, days when one could abandon 
 oneself without interruption to a mood, days such 
 as Michael Fane had known in his primrose pass- 
 age through Sinister Street, which Raymond longed 
 above all things to recapture. He opened the sec- 
 ond volume of "Sinister Street" at random: "Mi- 
 chael wandered on in meditation. From lighted 
 windows in the High came a noise of laugh- 
 ter and voices that seemed to make more grave 
 and more perdurable the spires and towers of Ox-
 
 RESOLVE 45 
 
 ford, deepening somehow the solemnity of the black 
 entries and the empty silver spaces before them. 
 Michael pondered the freshmen's chatter and ap- 
 prehended dimly how this magical sublunary city 
 would convert all that effusion of naive intolerance 
 to her own renown. ..." 
 
 Would Oxford ever again be like that? Had it 
 ever been like that, or had it only existed, a silver 
 city of dream and shadow, in the mind of a novelist? 
 Everything seemed to have been so easy in those 
 days — the channels so well worn. Ray had loved 
 even the evidence which he had found of intoler- 
 ance, of effete and antique tradition, in the same 
 way in which he had loved the mottled corbels and 
 gargoyles which dreamed their twisted dreams 
 above the dim cloisters of Magdalen. He had 
 loved the superstitious veneration which had clus- 
 tered round a fourth-year man, the particular and 
 meticulous social grades represented by a Presi- 
 dent of the Union, a Blue, an editor of The 'Var- 
 sity, the head of a political club. He had loved the 
 evidence he had found of wit and of laughter, the 
 epigrams scattered like hard crystals through the 
 pages of college magazines. He had loved the 
 superficiality because it was superficial, and as 
 such, an evidence of light-heartedness, an evidence 
 of youth untarnished. He had loved all this com- 
 edy of manners in the same way as he had loved the 
 fripperies, the patches and the powder of some
 
 46 PATCHWORK 
 
 painted Macaroni from the coloured pages of a 
 history that had passed. 
 
 All these things, as he began to discover sadly, 
 were gone. Blackwell no longer published precious 
 sonnets in which monstrous linnets sang unearthly 
 melodies in the golden fume of impossible Sep- 
 tember mornings. Instead he published "Wheels," 
 the quintessence of modernity, poems in which 
 there was no rhyme, and for which there was far 
 too much reason. "Wheels," with its harsh ang- 
 ular covers, its black lines and its brick-red curves, 
 seemed symbolical, in some ways, of the Oxford 
 that was to be. Poems inspired by bitterness, by 
 hatred, by a vision of the sham and rottenness 
 which lay behind the faded pomp and circumstance 
 of war. And the damnable part of it all was that 
 the poems were right. They were right because 
 they were disillusioned, because they were harsh, 
 because they had swept away with a gesture, the 
 fabric of dreams which Oxford had once built with 
 so superb an unconsciousness. 
 
 There is nothing more sad than the renunciation 
 of a symbol, the surrender of a flag. Oxford 
 seemed to have capitulated, to have realised that she 
 too was beaten. It was not merely the outward 
 signs and sordid symbols of defeat which were most 
 striking. It was most of all, thought Ray, the 
 astonishing commercialisation of the undergradu- 
 ates themselves. He had managed to discover, and
 
 RESOLVE 47 
 
 to lead, a small set which was either too well bred 
 or too insensitive to show any marked effects of the 
 war. But the rest of the College, and the rest of 
 the university, seemed quite different. For in- 
 stance, most people seemed to be talking of nothing 
 but work. And then, some men even imparted to 
 J. C. R. something of the atmosphere ot a mess 
 and talked in loud voices, from behind pipes, about 
 such things as "Bodies" and "Black Marias" and 
 "spinning nose-dives" — atrocities which in Oxford 
 should never for one moment have been mentioned 
 as even existent. But they carried their obnoxious- 
 ness even further than this. They called J. C. R. 
 "mess." They spoke of the college chaplain as 
 "the padre — a jolly decent fellow." They described 
 chapel as "church parade." One particularly ob- 
 jectionable person, who had been wounded in the 
 war and consequently considered that he had 
 a right to make himself unpleasant to anybody 
 and everybody with whom he came in contact, 
 asked Ray, who happened to be on that particular 
 morning rather paler than usual, if he were "going 
 sick." 
 
 "If you use expressions of that nature, I shall 
 be sick, without the least compunction, on you," 
 Ray replied. He had been furious that a reptile of 
 that nature should be allowed to use such phrases in 
 a place which he was trying to love. 
 
 There were times when he longed passionately
 
 48 PATCHWORK 
 
 that he had been born a few years earlier, so that 
 at any rate he might have known Oxford as she had 
 been in the past. He felt that then he might have 
 died content. 
 
 Was it, however, impossible that the old Oxford 
 should return? Were things always to be so sordid, 
 so practical, so commerical? Was the time never to 
 return when one could wander into J. C. R. and 
 inform the assembly there that one had been in 
 travail all the afternoon with a triolet, and not 
 be regarded as mad? It was not merely the some- 
 what narrow, but not unpraiseworthy, attitude of 
 the aesthete. It was something infinitely deeper 
 than that — the exaltation of culture for the sake 
 of culture, the praise of folly for the sake of folly. 
 And more, the love of living for the sake of life — 
 life irresponsible, full-blooded, triumphant. 
 
 Ray was, for these reasons, thoroughly dis- 
 appointed and dissatisfied with Oxford. He had 
 asked for dreams, he had been given the harshest 
 realities. He had demanded a comedy of manners, 
 he had been presented with a tragedy of bad 
 manners. He had come to enjoy life, and to see 
 others enjoy life, and all he seemed expected to 
 do was to work, and to watch other people working. 
 
 Even if Oxford had been what he had expected, 
 it would in any case have been extraordinarily hard 
 to work. Here was the world going to the devil, 
 nations running amok, battle, murder, and sudden
 
 RESOLVE 49 
 
 death — and all the time a man was supposed to 
 sit down and read the Political History of England 
 in 1603. It was too much for human endurance. 
 
 How amazingly dull were these historians! 
 Even in a period such as he was supposed to read, 
 the Stuarts, they seemed to take from that crowded 
 and coloured pageant all the magic which it should 
 have possessed. [Ray had not yet read Trevelyan.] 
 He opened the book. Chapter I. "Elizabeth left 
 to her successor a kingdom in most respects unlike 
 that which she had received from Mary." Good 
 God! To open the performance with a thing like 
 that! To start all this tale of tragedy and greatness 
 with that sort of stuff! Ray felt that if he had 
 written it he would have flung on the paper a 
 magnificent sentence, which would have strutted 
 proudly over half the page, its commas waving like 
 flags, its full stops the final pendant in a chain of 
 wonderful phrases. What the devil was the use 
 of saying that "Elizabeth left to her successor a 
 kingdom in most respects unlike that which she 
 had received from Mary"? It roused no emotions. 
 It didn't teach you anything, except to swear. 
 
 Sometimes he would think that he couldn't 
 work because he was not getting enough exercise. 
 And then he would get into shorts, and trot out 
 to Boar's Hill, and rush wildly and exultantly 
 over ploughed fields in a sort of pagan ecstasy 
 till he was tired out. But that didn't seem to
 
 5 o PATCHWORK 
 
 help him. Then he thought that he must be 
 reading the wrong stuff, and for hours he would 
 turn over the yellow pages of the catalogues in 
 the Bodleian, trying to find some work which might 
 in some degree hold his attention. But that 
 seemed equally useless. There was always some- 
 thing far more exciting to read — queer books on 
 psycho-analysis which made the Librarian frown 
 when he was asked for them, strange, monstrous 
 books of which he had dimly heard and which for a 
 time exercised a subtle attraction on his thought. 
 
 But nothing that he did could fix his attention 
 on his work. He covered pages of notes, he 
 underlined the dates in red ink, he drew maps 
 of the English colonists in America and learnt 
 all the bumps on the coast off by heart and filled 
 in the various plantations with a brilliant patchwork 
 of pastel; he drew little pictures of Charles II 
 hurling the Declaration of Indulgence into the 
 faces of an astonished and indignant House of 
 Commons, and of James II climbing over the five- 
 barred gate of the Clarendon Code and falling 
 into the 1688 Revolution on the other side — but 
 it was all useless. Nothing that he read, nothing 
 that he did, would remain in his mind for more 
 than a night. And so after the first week or so, 
 he decided to give up the attempt. 
 
 In any case, what was the use of trying to work in 
 an Oxford which was thoroughly and radically
 
 RESOLVE 5 i 
 
 wrong? The more he read "Sinister Street" the 
 more was he conscious of a great heritage which he 
 had lost, a great glory which had passed him by. 
 Oxford was wrong, and it was no use pretending 
 that it was not. There were times in this first 
 fortnight when he felt that he would be happier in 
 London. 
 
 And then gradually Ray, as he pondered these 
 things, came to a conclusion. It first struck him 
 on a night about ten days after his arrival, when 
 he had returned to his rooms with a feeling of 
 the utmost depression. He had been to a little 
 society at New College called the "Tobacchona- 
 lians," and had been struck by the futility, 
 the reserve, the self-consciousness of all present. 
 There had been none of that spontaneity, that 
 delightful carelessness, about the meeting which 
 above all things in Oxford he had hoped to find. 
 Whatever life there was in the discussion — it was 
 about "Art and War" — had been contributed by 
 himself. 
 
 And he came to this conclusion. Why should 
 not he, alone except for a few faithful spirits, create 
 once again the Oxford that had been? 
 
 There was something extraordinarily exhilarating 
 in the idea. How he was to do it he had not the 
 faintest notion. He would have to be something 
 very much bigger than an aesthete, because aesthetes 
 are primarily lacking in a sense of humour, and it
 
 52 PATCHWORK 
 
 is by laughter that men are led. He must be 
 something far more brilliant than a mere wit, 
 original in a great many other ways than in his 
 epigrams, or his clothes. He would have to typify 
 and exaggerate all those qualities which had once 
 shone so exquisitely in Oxford men. 
 
 To re-create the Oxford that had been! What 
 an amazing task! Ray knew that the effort, 
 herculean as it was, would possibly involve him 
 in a good deal of unpopularity, for the simple 
 reason that it would need so much advertisement. 
 However, the thought of hostility was only a spur 
 to urge him to greater efforts. How he was to 
 start he did not know. For the present he would 
 plunge into every phase of Oxford life that he 
 could still find, he would, of set purpose, know 
 everybody of any interest or of any talent in the 
 university. He would cast his bread on as many 
 waters as his ship might chance to sail. . . . 
 
 A fortnight passed on in this way, and already 
 Ray found that he seemed to be known by half the 
 'Varsity. It was rather the thing to say "D'you 
 know Sheldon?" The answer was usually in the 
 affirmative. "Queer sort of blighter," was the 
 average criticism — "Rather clever though, isn't 
 he?" Ray found that the little engagement book 
 which he kept on his mantelpiece was now full 
 for a week ahead. Breakfasts at the Grid — long, 
 lazy breakfasts with the winter sunshine filtering
 
 RESOLVE 53 
 
 through the high windows into the crowded room — 
 lunches at some college or other, wonderful intimate 
 lunches with brown beer in silver tankards or 
 mulled claret in a pewter pot. And of course 
 endless teas. 
 
 There was a great similarity about these teas. A 
 dozen or so usually seemed to turn up, there was 
 always much discussion of who was going to do 
 what, and how they were going to do it, incessant 
 cigarette smoking, and a large consumption of 
 crumpets and parti-coloured cakes from Buol's or 
 the Cadena. Ray usually seated himself in front 
 of the fire on the floor, and found quite naturally 
 that he seemed to be looked upon as the chief 
 entertainment of the party. However, he meant 
 to be a great deal more than merely an entertainer. 
 After all he might go on like this for years and 
 never influence anybody or anything. And so it 
 was that he decided that he would get hold of 
 the Press. 
 
 The first thing to do was to capture the recog- 
 nised organs of undergraduate opinion which so far 
 were still dormant since the war. He decided that 
 for the present he would tell nobody of his plans, 
 not even Steele. He went round to see the 
 authorities of the Holywell Press. 
 
 The Holywell Press, till recently, was situated 
 in a rambling old house in Holywell Street, which
 
 54 PATCHWORK 
 
 seemed never to begin and never to end, and whose 
 entrances were very hard to find. One went 
 through doors of curious shape and rotten wood, 
 on which hung knockers so flaked with rust as to 
 have been long useless, along passages lined with 
 fuscous brick, through a room where wheels and 
 cylinders twined and blackened monotonously, or 
 more pathetic still, lay in suspended animation, with 
 the floor heaped with scraps of chiselled lead, or 
 strewn with limp proof-sheets, blurred and old. 
 Through this room the way led to a crazy flight 
 of stairs till eventually one penetrated to the inner 
 sanctum of must and menu cards, and met the chief. 
 
 Ray, as he pushed his way through this maze, felt 
 how delightful it would be to be able to write, in 
 his own rooms, of the Oxford he wished to rebuild, 
 and then to bring along his work and see it 
 gradually put into print by this medieval machinery. 
 
 He found Baines, the managing editor of The 
 Isis that had been, in the inner room. He was 
 a shrewd, likeable little man, with a brown 
 moustache and twinkling eyes, like a fox terrier. 
 
 Ray explained why he had come. Baines leant 
 back in his chair, and chewed reflectively the stump 
 of his shiny pencil. 
 
 "Well, I don't know about The 'Varsity," 
 he said. "You see, sir, that's already been incor- 
 porated in The Isis."
 
 RESOLVE 55 
 
 "But can't you get out The his again?" 
 
 Baines shook his head. "Not this term. It 
 wouldn't pay, you see." 
 
 Ray looked rather crestfallen. "But surely it'll 
 have to come out some time, won't it?" 
 
 Baines laughed. "Oh yes, sir, some time. 
 Next term, probably." 
 
 That was something at any rate. Eventually it 
 was decided that Ray was to edit The his and 
 that it should appear as a sixpenny weekly next 
 term. He departed with a great bundle of pre-war 
 copies of the paper under his arm, to study at 
 his leisure, and before that evening was over had 
 already written two leading articles, a poem, and a 
 couple of reviews of books he had never read. 
 
 What fun it was! Here at last was something 
 on which to feed his mind. Besides, it would give 
 him such a delightful sense of power. If anybody 
 was disagreeable now, the influence of the Press 
 would be against him. How splendid that sounded! 
 Already epigrams were forming in his mind which 
 he would hurl, barbed and poisoned, into the breasts 
 of his opponents. He thought of so many epigrams 
 that he felt he would have to find a great many 
 disagreeable people on whom to discharge them. 
 
 He would have to get a good many contributors 
 to do regular articles. Steele, for instance, would 
 do the Union notes. By next term the Union
 
 56 PATCHWORK 
 
 should have got on its feet again, and would be all 
 the better for a little biting criticism. He looked 
 over some of the past reports. 
 
 "Mr. N. McLeod (Wadham) communed breath- 
 lessly with his boots. 
 
 "Lord Sandon (Ch. Ch.) indignantly denied the 
 existence of the idle rich. 
 
 "Mr. J. H. Burrows (Balliol) rose to put some 
 plain facts. Where did he put them? 
 
 "Mr. M. Wrong (Balliol) said, 'Why drag in 
 Noah?' and dragged in Aristotle. We like listen- 
 ing to Mr. Wrong. 
 
 "Mr. G. T. Pearson (Worcester) gargled a very 
 admirable speech. 
 
 "Mr. N. King (Keble) spat blood with great 
 geniality, gallantly throttled a burst of emotion, 
 and concluded with an andante peroration of three 
 words. We liked Mr. King." 
 
 Ray chuckled happily over these excerpts. He 
 jotted down a few things to say about future orators. 
 
 However, The I sis was by no means enough. 
 Of course it was, in its way, a medium through 
 which he could make his voice heard, but he needed 
 a good deal more than that. After all, anybody 
 could be editor of The Isis. It needed no particular 
 genius. And so, a few days later, he took the next 
 step. 
 
 He went round to see Steele. He was sitting 
 in front of the fire under the frowning auspices of
 
 RESOLVE 57 
 
 Rodin's "Penseur," the pose of which, for the 
 moment, he appeared to be copying. The statue 
 seemed to permeate the room with an atmosphere 
 of thoughts which indeed were too expansive for 
 their tiny surroundings. He looked up. 
 
 "Hullo!" 
 
 "I've just become an editor," said Ray, stroking 
 the "Penseur" affectionately. 
 
 "A what?" 
 
 "I said an editor." 
 
 "My dear Ray, what on earth of?" 
 
 "The Isis." 
 
 "Thelsis? You? Good Lord!" 
 
 "I don't see any particular reason for saying 
 'good Lord!' It's going to be the greatest pos- 
 sible fun." 
 
 He explained the scheme. He had already 
 talked at random to Steele of his plans. They 
 were both dissatisfied. They both found it extraor- 
 dinarily hard to work. Perhaps the only differ- 
 ence between Steele and Ray was that the latter 
 was more ambitious. He had a burning confidence 
 in himself such as is given to few men. 
 
 "I shall want you to do the Union notes," he 
 said. 
 
 "Damn!" 
 
 "They won't take much time," said Ray apolo- 
 getically. 
 
 It suddenly struck Steele that if he ever spoke
 
 58 PATCHWORK 
 
 at the Union it might be rather useful to be able 
 to write his own criticisms. 
 
 "No, perhaps it won't. All right then." 
 
 He warmed to the idea, and they discussed it 
 in every aspect. Posters in the High — placards 
 —"The New Oxford," "The Old Oxford"— 
 powerful articles which would shake the intellectual 
 world — it was all damned amusing. 
 
 "But that wasn't really what I came to see you 
 about," said Ray. 
 
 "How do you mean?" 
 
 "I want to do something much bigger than 
 The his." 
 
 "What sort of thing?" 
 
 "Well, a good many things. But to begin 
 with, another paper." 
 
 "My dear Ray . . ." said Steele again. 
 
 Ray put his hand on Steele's shoulder. 
 
 "On the contrary, 'my dear Steele,' or what- 
 ever I arranged to call you. I really don't see why 
 you appear to be surprised." 
 
 "Well, I suppose I oughtn't to be surprised at 
 anything you do. But really, you know, two papers 
 in the first fortnight. . . ." 
 
 "Yes — but what else is there to do? It's hope- 
 less to work with Oxford like this. It's hopeless 
 merely to run about to clubs and societies and tea 
 parties. I shall go mad if I don't do something, 
 and here's, at any rate, some sort of way of doing it.
 
 RESOLVE 59 
 
 I want to write. I ... oh, Lord, I don't know 
 what I want to do. But if we can get hold of the 
 Press of the place we might, at any rate, find out." 
 
 Steele nodded. 
 
 "But what sort of paper do you want to run?" 
 he asked. 
 
 "A sort of fortnightly review. You see, The 
 I sis is just a sort of Daily Mail. It isn't meant 
 to appeal to serious people. But I want something 
 that will make people sit up — something that will 
 make the outside papers give us enormous reviews. 
 Hang it all — here we are, back from the war, 
 presumably with a certain amount of intelligence, 
 and I imagine we've got something we want to 
 say, and I also imagine that people might be 
 willing to listen to us." 
 
 "I see what you mean." 
 
 "In any case think of the fun of the whole 
 thing. Think of writing priceless articles, and 
 getting advertisements, and printed circulars. It 
 would be the first paper to come out at all, we could 
 be the sole proprietors and editors, and if we sold 
 it at half a crown we might make a simply enormous 
 profit. We could get out a subscription form for 
 four numbers, and if you got all your relations, and 
 I got all mine, that would be about five hundred. 
 And then we're bound to get about fifteen hundred 
 from other places. Well, that gives us a clear 
 thousand pounds to start on. . . ."
 
 60 PATCHWORK 
 
 "Good Lord!" 
 
 "I wish you would do something else than 
 invoke the deity," said Ray, rather irritably. 
 
 Steele laughed happily. "My dear Ray," he 
 said, "the trouble about being sincere is that 
 it usually robs one of self-expression, and I really 
 am getting sincerely attached to this stunt." 
 
 "Are you?" Ray looked at him eagerly. 
 
 "I certainly am. Of course there'll be an 
 immense amount to discuss." 
 
 "There will." 
 
 "But it's just the sort of thing I've always 
 wanted to do." 
 
 Ray nodded. "Of course, it's the sort of thing 
 that everybody wants to do," he said. 
 
 "And if we don't do it, I suppose some one 
 else will?" 
 
 "Sure to." 
 
 The next afternoon, after lunch, they held a 
 council of war. They decided that they would get 
 The Oxford News to publish the paper, which should 
 be a fortnightly, and that the first number should 
 appear on the first day of next term. It would be 
 easy enough to get copy, political or literary. 
 
 "The only question now is the title," said 
 Steele. 
 
 "Yes, of course, that's awfully important." 
 
 Steele frowned hard for a minute. "What 
 about 'The New Oxford'?"
 
 RESOLVE 6 i 
 
 "Isn't that the name of some music-hall?" 
 laughed Ray. "I mean, we don't want it to be 
 funny, do we?" 
 
 "No, I suppose we don't. But we do want 
 something that'll give in a word or two the impres- 
 sion of Oxford waking up after the war. I think 
 we ought to have 'new' in somewhere, don't 
 you?" 
 
 "I wonder." Ray thought hard. "Can't we 
 get something more — more transcendental? I mean 
 something that makes people leap up when they see 
 it." 
 
 " 'Oxford Awake!' what about that?" 
 
 "Don't be absurd. No — I mean something 
 like 'Oxford on the threshold'!" 
 
 "On the threshold of what?" 
 
 "Oh, all sorts of things. New ideas, new this, 
 that and the other. Or rather, old ideas, because 
 that's what we want to get back to." 
 
 "Well, I don't like the threshold business. 
 It's such an awful word. It sounds as if you were 
 tight." 
 
 "Let's go out in the quad, and think there," 
 said Ray. "It might clear our brains." 
 
 "All right." 
 
 They went down the stone stairs out into the 
 quad. The air was cold and sweet. Pale wintry 
 sunshine filtered through the bare branches of the 
 trees, and the gravel path was a trellis work of light
 
 62 PATCHWORK 
 
 and shadow. From Trinity a bell struck the hour. 
 It was half-past three. 
 
 "How beastly bare everything looks!" said 
 Steele. 
 
 "Oh, I don't know. I like these bare branches," 
 Ray replied, "because I like trees to do the right, 
 things." 
 
 "What sort of things?" 
 
 "I mean I like trees that wear the proper clothes 
 in winter and don't swank about in green all the 
 year round." 
 
 Steele laughed. "I believe this is the time 
 when the human body is at the lowest point of 
 animation," he said, linking his arm in Ray's. 
 
 "Oh, don't mind that. Let's think." 
 
 They walked up and down. 
 
 "Every decent title seems to have been taken, 
 you know." Steele kicked a stone irritably on to 
 the grass. 
 
 "How do you mean?" 
 
 "Well, The his, for instance. We can't get 
 out a paper called The New his, because it's the 
 same old river." 
 
 "Besides, our paper's going to be a much 
 bigger thing than The his will be, even under my 
 editorship." 
 
 "I know." 
 
 "I still think we want something startling. I 
 mean, something that will make all the London 
 papers give us enormous reviews."
 
 RESOLVE 63 
 
 " 'The Isis Bursts its Banks'?" 
 
 Ray giggled. "I wish you wouldn't be so 
 damned facetious. No, I mean something like 
 'Oxford and the New World.' " He glanced 
 at Steele, who was smiling slyly — "Oh, I 
 know that's absurd, but we've got to think of 
 something." 
 
 "Look here — you walk round that way, and 
 I'll walk round this, and we'll each take a quarter 
 of an hour and then come back and tell each other 
 what we've thought of." 
 
 "Very well, we'll do that." 
 
 They each set off, and Ray lit a cigarette, and 
 strolled into the Fellows' Garden. Somehow on this 
 wonderful March afternoon the idea of a new 
 Oxford seemed out of place. Oxford seemed so 
 eternally wise, so immeasurably venerable. Any 
 idea of newness, any suspicion of Oxford having 
 been in any way conscious of the travail of the 
 world, seemed to be ridiculous in this old garden. 
 Here were crocuses, their mauves and yellows 
 made more radiant than ever by the contrast of 
 the grey windows of the Senior Common Room. 
 The grass stretched under his feet, sleek and well 
 groomed; the quad was silent and empty, except 
 for the faint crunching of Steele's feet on the gravel 
 in the distance. 
 
 He shouted across to him. "Thought of any- 
 thing?" 
 
 "No." His voice came back faintly.
 
 64 PATCHWORK 
 
 Ray frowned. He certainly did not seem in 
 the mood for thinking of titles. He knew that 
 what Steele wanted was something rugged and new. 
 He wanted something that should challenge the 
 old Oxford out of its slumbers. A word that 
 should contain in it the echoes of conflict — a phrase 
 that might in some degree express the hope of 
 regeneration. And there was no word. Ought 
 there to be a word? After all, Ray's whole idea 
 had been part of a greater scheme for making 
 Oxford return to the paths she had left. Phrases 
 flitted through his mind, one after the other, but 
 as soon as they had done so they seemed absorbed 
 and assimilated into the atmosphere of Oxford itself. 
 
 He walked up and down. Of course, a title 
 would come sooner or later. The title was fear- 
 fully important. This paper was going to be a 
 big thing. It was going to startle the world. 
 There seemed no reason just then, at any rate, why 
 it should not become the biggest review in the 
 country. It had a definite purpose to fulfil, the 
 purpose which they had already sketched out in 
 their manifesto. And above all, it would give him 
 something to do. During the vac. he would write 
 poems and wonderful essays, he would collect 
 contributions — he might even do a poster or two. 
 Already in his mind's eye he had visualised a huge 
 poster of a man in blue trousers and spangled, 
 spotted tights kicking into the air a mass of
 
 RESOLVE 65 
 
 brightly coloured balloons which floated fantastically 
 all over the paper. On each of the balloons 
 could be the name of a contributor, and on the 
 largest balloon of all would be the title, The 
 Oxford . . . Mercury. 
 
 He shouted to Steele and ran up. 
 
 "I say, I've got it." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "The Oxford Mercury." 
 
 Pause. Steele was not particularly impressed. 
 
 Ray looked annoyed. "Well, don't you like 
 it? Personally I think it's much the best thing 
 we've thought of so far, anyway." 
 
 Steele rubbed the toe of his shoe in the gravel. 
 "Perhaps it is," he said. "And it is jolly good in 
 a way, only " 
 
 "Only what?" 
 
 "Well, it doesn't seem to get us much further 
 really. I mean, it's got nothing about anything new 
 in it, has it?" 
 
 Ray smiled, and drew his arm in Steele's. 
 
 "My dear old chap, just look out there." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 Steele looked. There was nothing very much 
 to see. Trinity was a grey pile against a steel-blue 
 sky. Balliol seemed asleep. And then the silence 
 was broken by the chiming of bells. It was four 
 o'clock. First came the stroke of St. Mary's, cold 
 and clear, then the deep resonance of Big Tom.
 
 66 PATCHWORK 
 
 Trinity broke in with its silver peal, and from all 
 over Oxford, chimes and quarters, clear and silver, 
 deep and muffled, added a miraculous chorus of 
 melody. 
 
 Then again, silence. 
 
 And Steele saw in a flash what Ray had 
 meant. 
 
 It was the feeling which had passed through 
 Ray's mind in the Fellows' Garden — the feeling 
 that there must never be a new Oxford. "Oxford 
 seemed so eternally wise, so immeasurably vener- 
 able . . ." 
 
 "See what I mean?" 
 
 Steele nodded. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "I see."
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 CROWDED LIFE 
 
 TERM sped by on wings of talk and laughter, 
 and Oxford stretched her limbs and revived 
 again many of the old activities which she had 
 forgotten. The river once again knew the bite of 
 oars and the shouting throng that ran along the 
 bare banks. Clubs opened their doors, armchairs 
 were dusted and re-covered, books taken from 
 packing cases and placed once more in triumphant 
 rows along newly painted shelves. The Union 
 shook off her sleep and once again the worn benches 
 of the debating hall were crowded with under- 
 graduates, and resounding perorations broke the 
 silence of five pears. 
 
 But still Ray was not satisfied. Oxford was still 
 only superficially Oxford. The more he threw 
 himself into every side of university life, the more 
 societies he joined, the more dinners in which he 
 participated, the more was he convinced that the 
 true atmosphere of Oxford was completely missing. 
 The only occasion on which he really felt he was at 
 Oxford at all was on one afternoon soon after he 
 had discussed The Oxford Mercury with Steele. 
 
 67
 
 68 PATCHWORK 
 
 After so much excitement, Ray felt that he needed 
 rest, and he made his way slowly and somewhat 
 disconsolately down to Parkin's. He had an excuse 
 for going there, namely that he had to buy a copy 
 of Maine's 'Ancient Law," but that was not really 
 the reason why he went. He went because he had, 
 that afternoon, an irresistible desire for books, the 
 feel of books, the smell of books. 
 
 He walked down the Turl, across the noisy 
 High, and into the still old bookshop. The 
 contrast between the noise of the street and the 
 tranquillity among these shelves was delightful. 
 No sound here except the occasional feeble step of 
 some old man in the corner or the faint rustle of the 
 leaves of some theological treatise which was being 
 examined by an ancient clergyman, seated on the 
 steps of a ladder. 
 
 Here at last, felt Ray, was the real Oxford. 
 Here, in some subtle way, seemed concentrated the 
 thought and essence of all Oxford men. Here still 
 lingered their passions and desires, caged and dying 
 now, perhaps, but able to be wakened to fresh life 
 by one who could still understand. 
 
 He looked at the shelf opposite which he was 
 standing. It was full of little paper-covered books 
 of undergraduate poetry. How adorable they all 
 were! Bad poetry some of it, perhaps, some of it 
 certainly good. But it was not the actual worth of 
 the poems which mattered. It was the fact that
 
 CROWDED LIFE 69 
 
 they had been published at all. He wondered what 
 their authors had been like — young men whose 
 voices had so recently echoed, perhaps in this very 
 shop, young men who had loved and lived only so 
 few years ago, before the war. There was a pathos 
 about these little volumes which no other book 
 seemed quite to possess. With their elaborate 
 dedications, their high-sounding titles, their brightly 
 coloured covers, they yet retained a charming 
 gaucherie, a sweet precociousness, which was more 
 for tears than for laughter. They brought the 
 memory of so much youth, so much sunshine, so 
 much love. 
 
 He turned aside and walked to the next book- 
 case. Here were collected all the faded relics of the 
 nineties. A complete edition of "The Yellow Book" 
 sprawled along the shelves, the intricate Beardsley 
 covers now coated with dust, through which light 
 ladies with twisted eyebrows and pierrots with 
 twitching mouths, stared at him surreptitiously. 
 What a fascinating period that had been ! Ray was 
 still healthy enough to be able to become an aesthete 
 at any moment, and as he stood here, with the fine 
 flower of aestheticism before his eyes, he felt a wish 
 that he himself had lived in that wonderful time. 
 He too would have worn a black cloak and a green 
 carnation. He too would have waited eagerly for 
 the latest Beardsley drawing, the latest poem of 
 Ernest Dowson, the bitterest epigram of Oscar
 
 70 PATCHWORK 
 
 Wilde. At five o'clock in the morning, in a 
 hansom, he would have driven to Covent Garden, 
 and delicately he would have alighted and threaded 
 his way through the carnations and the country 
 roses. Perhaps he too, like Dorian Gray, might 
 have been offered white cherries in the hat of some 
 chubby-faced carter's lad. . . . 
 
 And then, here, a little further down, were all 
 the French decadents, shoved away in a corner, 
 where they looked like yellow fungus clinging to 
 the rotten walls. Here again were memories 
 enough! Barbey D'Aurevilly, the king of sen- 
 sualists, and all the rest of Huysman's works, with 
 their tired perversity and their exquisite prose. 
 Verlaine, with his silver songs and his golden 
 moons, Baudelaire — dear old Baudelaire, how he 
 had trembled when he had first read "Le Vin des 
 Amants"! He still had his copy somewhere at 
 home, underlined in a hand which had shaken with 
 excitement. 
 
 "Anything I can show you, sir?" 
 
 Ray looked round at the old man who spoke. 
 He hesitated a moment. 
 
 "Well, I was thinking of some Beardsley," he 
 said. 
 
 "Beardsley, sir? Ah yes!" He rubbed his 
 glasses, and adjusting them again, peered into a 
 corner and drew out a thin portfolio bound with 
 faded green and gold, tied with green ribbons.
 
 CROWDED LIFE 71 
 
 "I have here, sir," he fumbled with the ribbons, 
 "a very fine first set of the Beardsley illustrations 
 to Oscar Wilde's 'Salome.' On parchment, sir. A 
 very fine edition indeed, from the library of the late 
 Mr. Robert Ross." 
 
 He stepped aside so that Ray might look for 
 himself. 
 
 Ray turned over the pages. He had seen the 
 drawings before, but never so beautifully repro- 
 duced. What an amazing creature Beardsley had 
 been — a shy, ugly youth who had lived but twenty- 
 three short years! Ray noticed what a sinister 
 power there was in these drawings: Salome in 
 cloaks, Salome in gauze and pearls, Salome a tiny 
 tragic figure being lifted into a powder box by a 
 faun and a pierrot. He took a strange pleasure in 
 studying the perversion that Beardsley had put into 
 her face. Everything he had drawn seemed mis- 
 shapen and monstrous. Even the candlesticks with 
 their long dripping wax were unnatural, and the 
 roses that clustered round the frontispiece twined as 
 no earthly roses had ever done. 
 
 He looked up at Mr. Parkin, who was gazing 
 respectfully out of the window. 
 
 u How much are these?" he said. 
 
 "Five guineas, sir. Only five guineas. It is a 
 unique set." 
 
 "Will you put it down to my account — Mr. 
 Raymond Sheldon, Balliol?"
 
 72 PATCHWORK 
 
 A faint ray of wintry sunshine seemed to pass 
 over Mr. Parkin's face. Here at last was the 
 connoisseur for whom he had been waiting. And 
 Ray too felt pleased that he had decided as he had 
 done. Whenever he bought anything, he liked to 
 buy it quickly, without discussing the price. If it 
 had been fifty guineas he would have felt inclined, 
 in his present mood, to pay. 
 
 "Certainly, sir. I think you have chosen very 
 wisely, if I may say so, sir." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "Is there anything else I can show you, sir? I 
 have a fine lot of first editions from Lord Weston's 
 library." 
 
 Ray shook his head. "Not just now, thanks 
 very much. But I shall be coming in here a lot, I 
 expect." He cast his eyes affectionately round the 
 huddled shelves. 
 
 "I hope you will, sir." He went to the door. 
 "Good day, sir." 
 
 "Good afternoon." 
 
 Ray went out into the street, and drew his coat 
 closely round him. It was cold, and already it 
 seemed to be growing dark. He would go back to 
 Balliol and have tea in the J. C. R. 
 
 By the time he got to the J. C. R. it was already 
 dark outside, and the room was a pleasant blaze of 
 light and warmth. J. C. R. was an amusing place. 
 It was not particularly beautiful, it is true, with its
 
 CROWDED LIFE 73 
 
 crude chintzes and its light woodwork. It had no 
 historical associations, having been built only some 
 dozen years. Perhaps for this reason it was more 
 comfortable than the average junior common room. 
 At any rate, it was usually fairly full, and at tea- 
 time it was always packed. This was the time when 
 the Oxford politicians held forth in front of the fire, 
 while the aesthetes looked on with bored toleration 
 and the athletes tumbled over chairs in the back- 
 ground. 
 
 Ray sat down and ordered some muffins and 
 some tea. 
 
 "Hullo r 
 
 He looked up and saw Mace. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "And how's our wealthy young aesthete?" 
 
 Ray laughed. "I never answer questions like 
 that, Tony," he said. 
 
 Mace sat down by his side. He was a remark- 
 able sight that afternoon. Tall and fair, with the 
 face of a tired child, he had been severely wounded 
 in the war, and in consequence seemed to cherish a 
 resentment against every institution and person with 
 whom he came in contact. At all events he made it 
 his business to annoy as many of the people of 
 whom he disapproved as possible, which probably 
 accounted for his appearance this afternoon. 
 
 He turned to Ray and produced a long yellow 
 scarf from his pocket.
 
 74 PATCHWORK 
 
 "Don't you think this is rather lovely?" he 
 said, rubbing it affectionately against his cheek. 
 
 "Yes, I do. I wish people would start wearing 
 those sort of things again." 
 
 "Wear it? Of course I'm going to wear it. I 
 shall wear damn well what I please." He laughed 
 slyly and stretched himself out in the chair like a 
 brightly striped cat. "I think my general ensemble 
 is rather pleasant to-day." 
 
 Ray looked at him. Pale grey suede shoes on 
 his feet, lemon-coloured socks, pale grey trousers, a 
 lemon-coloured waistcoat, a tie of shot green silk, 
 and a grey Norfolk jacket. "I met that cow 
 Aberconway in the quad just now, and he told me 
 to get my hair cut. I wish you could have heard 
 what I said to him. I simply cursed him till I was 
 pale mauve in the face and he was a rich sort of 
 plum colour. He went straight off and had a bath. 
 I sincerely hope he drowns. Charles ! " 
 
 "Yes, sir?" Charles was the chief J. C. R. 
 waiter. 
 
 "Do buck up with my tea, Charles. The fug 
 in this room is simply hideous." 
 
 "Just got it here, sir." He put down a tray in 
 front of the recumbent Mace, who took a muffin 
 and turned again to Ray. 
 
 "Well, and what have you been doing all the 
 afternoon?"
 
 CROWDED LIFE 75 
 
 "I've been buying books, if you really want to 
 know." 
 
 "Buying books? Good God, what a thing to 
 do! I never buy books. I either borrow them or 
 don't read them at all. It's no use buying books 
 nowadays. It's absolutely impossible to work." 
 
 He ran his hands through his hair. Ray did 
 not attempt to contradict him. Besides, he entirely 
 agreed. 
 
 "I don't know how you feel," Tony went on, 
 "but I seem to be utterly unable to settle down to 
 any sort of concentrated effort whatever. I'm not 
 altogether unintelligent." He laughed. "But I'm 
 damned if I can do so much as think nowadays. 
 It's simply ghastly. I go up to my room, and sit 
 down in front of some wretched book on Napoleon, 
 and smoke endless cigarettes and get up feeling an 
 utter wreck having accomplished nothing whatever 
 It really is awful." 
 
 Ray nodded. 
 
 "I never used to be like that. At school it 
 used to be comparatively simple to write essays — 
 rather good essays, too — but here it just can't be 
 done. One's pen seems to weigh about a ton, and 
 when you try to think what to put down, your 
 mind's just a blank. Or rather, it isn't even that. 
 It's full of the most absurd rot which shoves out 
 anything decent you might ever think of saying.
 
 76 PATCHWORK 
 
 ... I think Oxford's a thoroughly immoral place. 
 At any rate it is for any one who's just come back 
 from France." 
 
 "How do you mean?" 
 
 Tony kicked a cushion irritably. "Well, I 
 should have thought it was pretty obvious," he 
 said. "In the army you never had to think at all. 
 It was more or less fatal if you did. And every 
 silly minute of your life was taken up with some 
 mechanical work, so that while your mind had 
 ceased to exist you didn't notice it because it simply 
 didn't matter. You were just part of a machine. 
 And then — when this great and glorious war 
 stopped," he spoke bitterly, "when it stopped, one 
 was suddenly hurled, like an over-grown baby, into 
 the middle of Oxford. And the whole point of 
 Oxford is, or should be, that there is no sort of 
 discipline whatever except what one makes with 
 one's own mind. It really should be an admirable 
 training because it's all done by oneself. But we've 
 got, or at any rate I've got, absolutely no sort of 
 power left to do it now. It would have been 
 different if one had come straight to Oxford from 
 school. At school I was more or less a rational 
 being. At any rate I could think. But when you 
 have three years in the army absolutely devoid of 
 thought, and filled at the same time with the most 
 unutterable bloodiness that any man's ever had to 
 go through — well . . ."
 
 CROWDED LIFE 77 
 
 "Well, what?" 
 
 Tony laughed again. "Well, the result, my 
 dear Raymond, is what you see before you." 
 
 He swallowed some tea and lit a cigarette. They 
 talked desultorily for a few minutes, and then Tony 
 wandered off. 
 
 Rather sadly, Ray watched him go out. Poor 
 Tony! He was an example of the war's worst ef- 
 fects on a very sensitive and not unlovable tempera- 
 ment. Perhaps in time he would find his feet again. 
 At present he seemed to be floundering hopelessly. 
 Why shouldn't he become an ally? His mental 
 condition seemed rather similar to that of Ray's at 
 the beginning of term. He had a more than aver- 
 age share of brains and no way in which to employ 
 them. Ray was on the point of getting up to fol- 
 low him, to tell him about his various schemes, 
 when he saw Steele's head peering round the door. 
 
 He beckoned to him to come and sit down. 
 
 "I was just looking for you," said Steele myster- 
 iously. 
 
 "What about?" 
 
 "The O.M.," he whispered. 
 
 "Oh, any new developments?" 
 
 "Yes, I went round to see The Oxford News 
 people, and made an appointment to go there in 
 about a quarter of an hour. Can you come on 
 now?" 
 
 "Rather."
 
 7 8 PATCHWORK 
 
 As they went, Ray discussed Mace. 
 
 "We might make him into a 'creature/ " he said, 
 smiling. The word was a favourite with him, and 
 was applied indiscriminately to those persons whom 
 he drew into his net. 
 
 "He ought to make rather a good one," laughed 
 Steele. 
 
 "Well, you'll have to get hold of him. He must 
 be made quite docile." 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 They had not far to walk, because the offices of 
 The Oxford News were situated at the farther end 
 of the Corn, just where that street makes its 
 crowded and noisy meeting with the High. 
 
 They stumbled up some narrow stairs, went by 
 mistake into a typewriting office, and eventually 
 landed in a large room principally occupied by an 
 enormous table covered with papers in hopeless 
 confusion. 
 
 They were greeted by Mr. Waterberry, the sub- 
 editor of The Oxford News. He was a charming 
 little man, so diminutive that when he sat down 
 only his head was visible above the table, and as 
 that head was covered with a mass of straight gin- 
 ger hair, which stuck out in all directions like a 
 halo, it seemed as though a pocupine had landed on 
 the table, and apart from Ray and Steele, was the 
 sole occupant of the room. 
 
 "Good morning, Mr. Steele," he boomed, in a
 
 CROWDED LIFE 79 
 
 voice far out of proportion to the size of his 
 body. 
 
 "Good evening, Mr. W'aterberry," replied Steele. 
 "I've brought along my co-editor, Mr. Raymond 
 Sheldon." 
 
 They shook hands warmly, and Mr. Waterberry 
 informed Ray that he was delighted to meet him. 
 
 Steele had already settled the principal points 
 of publication with Waterberry, the price of print- 
 ing, etc. — so now the chief item to be arranged was 
 the question of advertisement. 
 
 "What about sandwich men?" said Steele. 
 
 Mr. Waterberry, whose dominant characteristic 
 seemed to be a mixture of slyness and amiability, 
 looked at him from the corner of his large and 
 watery eye. 
 
 "Ah, Mr. Steele," he said, "sandwich men," he 
 shook his head, "are not what they used to be. 
 Not by any means." 
 
 "Why?" said Ray. 
 
 "It would be difficult to say," said Mr. W'ater- 
 berry with an elaborate shrug. "But I assure you 
 they aren't." 
 
 "Well, what about sending circulars to the whole 
 university?" 
 
 Mr. Waterberry beamed. "Ah! circulars. That 
 is a very different matter. Very different, indeed." 
 He pursed his lips. 
 
 Steele produced some manuscript from his pocket.
 
 80 PATCHWORK 
 
 It was a manifesto which he had concocted with 
 Ray, setting forth the attractions of the O.M. 
 
 Mr. Waterberry frowned severely, adjusted his 
 glasses, hitched up his chair, and perused the docu- 
 ment with attention. 
 
 "THE OXFORD MERCURY. 
 "A Political and Literary Review. 
 "The first number of this paper will be published 
 in the first fortnight of the Summer term. It will 
 be written, edited, and controlled entirely by under- 
 graduate members of the university, and will en- 
 deavour to reflect every aspect of university thought 
 and university ideals. The high cost of printing 
 and publishing makes it impossible to produce the 
 paper under the sum of half a crown, but it is 
 hoped that the urgent necessity for a journal of 
 this nature in the critical period through which 
 We are passing, and the vital quality of its message, 
 will not prevent its widespread circulation. 
 
 Raymond Sheldon, 
 Curtis Steele, 
 
 Editors." 
 
 Mr. Waterberry found the circular quite admir- 
 able. 
 
 "And I think you'd better put the sub-title in 
 italics," said Steele. 
 
 Mr. Waterberry looked very sly. "Ah! italics!" 
 he said, and put his hands in his pockets as though 
 he carried italics about with him. "Italics! Yes,
 
 CROWDED LIFE 81 
 
 I don't see why we shouldn't put it in italics. Of 
 course — I'm not absolutely sure if we have the 
 type you want." His sentences had a way of start- 
 ing very softly, bursting into a crescendo in the 
 middle, and then dying into the slyest of whispers 
 at the end. "Just one moment." 
 
 He looked very important and turned very hard 
 the handle of what appeared to be an old sewing 
 machine, connected with pipes to the floor. A fee- 
 ble tinkle came from it, and it was seen to be a 
 telephone. 
 
 "Er — just send Mr. Read up to me a moment." 
 He spoke very fiercely indeed. 
 
 A voice was distinctly heard from downstairs 
 answering "Yes, sir," and the receiver was put 
 back, emitting a loud whirring noise in the process. 
 Mr. Waterberry pushed it away from him as though 
 it might explode. "Invaluable things, telephones." 
 
 "Yes, they are, aren't they?" replied Raymond. 
 He could see that Steele was convulsed with silent 
 laughter. 
 
 "I don't know what I should do without them 
 at all." He looked at Raymond from the corner 
 of his eye. "Quite invaluable. Quite — ah! Mr. 
 Read." 
 
 Mr. Read appeared — a weedy-looking youth, 
 with spots and pince-nez. Mr. Waterberry ad- 
 dressed him. "Er! Mr. Read, these — er — gentle- 
 men are thinking of publishing a review."
 
 82 PATCHWORK 
 
 Mr. Read looked as though he had been told 
 they were about to blow up the Bodleian. How- 
 ever, he managed to gulp "Yes, sir." Mr. Water- 
 berry continued in an elaborately unaffected man- 
 ner. 
 
 "The — er — periodical will be published by us. 
 Now there is just a little question of a circular 
 which we — er — propose to send out to possible sub- 
 scribers." 
 
 He glanced at Raymond with incredible subtlety. 
 "That is right, I believe, is it not?" 
 
 "Quite." 
 
 "To possible, I may say to intending subscribers. 
 Ha! ha!" 
 
 He paused to laugh at some joke which he ap- 
 peared to see. Neither Raymond nor Steele saw 
 the joke, but they immediately took the opportunity 
 of getting rid of some of the laughter which they 
 had been suppressing. When the noise was over 
 Mr. Waterberry suddenly became very serious 
 again and frowned at Mr. Read, who shuffled his 
 feet nervously. 
 
 "Now, what I wished to see you about is the 
 printing of this circular. It is all quite plain except 
 for the sub-title. That the editors wish, for the 
 sake of style, to be printed in italics." He pushed 
 the circular over to Mr. Read. 
 
 Read gasped at the circular. "We ain't got no 
 hitalics in stocks, sir," he said breathlessly.
 
 CROWDED LIFE 83 
 
 "Oh, I say ..." said Steele. 
 
 "One moment, Mr. Steele." Mr. Waterberry 
 waved him aside with beaming suavity, and sud- 
 denly frowned again at Read. 
 
 "Did I understand you to say you had no 
 italics?" 
 
 "No, sir." Read looked on the point of tears. 
 
 "Really, I must say ..." Steele was again 
 waved aside by the imperturbable Mr. Waterberry. 
 
 "These little matters . . ." he said, and glanced 
 at Raymond as though he at any rate understood 
 the deep inner meaning 01 all he said. He again 
 addressed Read as though he had stolen the italics, 
 and sold them for incredible sums. 
 
 "We have always had italics. We have never 
 been without them before. What is the reason?" 
 
 Read wiped his mouth. "All used for the Pro- 
 hibition Meeting pamphlets, sir, there was a lot of 
 hunderlinin' in 'em. They used up all the italics 
 we 'ad. Hin fac' we've 'ad to borrow some h's 
 from the 'Oily well as it is." 
 
 "How long will these italics be in use?" Mr. 
 Waterberry was one enormous frown from head to 
 foot. 
 
 "Don't know 'ow many more pamphlets they 
 want, sir. We're keepin' all the type set up, in 
 case they should want some more." 
 
 Mr. Waterberry paused, and then leant forward. 
 
 "The type must come down." He was almost
 
 84 PATCHWORK 
 
 fierce. "These circulars are more important than 
 those pamphlets. Far more important. You may 
 give orders for the type to be taken down. That 
 will do." He waved Read to the door with a ges- 
 ture that was magnificent. Read gulped and shuf- 
 fled out. Things were certainly moving in the of- 
 fices of The Oxford News. 
 
 Steele now broke in. "I say, you know, I'm 
 awfully sorry, but we simply must have it quite 
 clear about these italics." He put his hands in 
 his pockets firmly. 
 
 Mr. Waterberry leant back in his chair and toyed 
 with his watch-chain. "Ah, Mr. Steele, there will 
 be no difficulty about that. No difficulty whatever. 
 I have ordered the type to be taken down. . . ." 
 
 "Yes, but it isn't only these circulars I'm think- 
 ing of, it's the future. We may want heaps of 
 italics, especially if we have much poetry. Why, 
 supposing we wanted the whole of one number in 
 italics — what should we do? We might. You 
 never know." 
 
 Mr. Waterberry listened to him with a bland 
 smile. 
 
 "There will be no difficulty, Mr. Steele, should 
 you wish to do so, though I cannot say I think it 
 would be advisable to print a whole number in 
 italics." He shook his head gravely. "Far from 
 advisable, especially from the advertisers' point of 
 view. But, however you may wish it to be printed,
 
 CROWDED LIFE 85 
 
 I shall make a point of seeing that we have ade- 
 quate type. It must be adequate." 
 
 "It must," said Steele grimly. 
 
 "I shall therefore procure, at the earliest possible 
 opportunity, additions to our existing stock. In 
 fact, while we have been talking I have already 
 looked up the telephone number of our city repre- 
 sentatives to communicate with them on the sub- 
 ject to-day." 
 
 He leant forward with an air of triumph. Even 
 Steele was hardly prepared for such slyness. 
 
 "Oh, that's awfully good of you. I'm very glad, 
 because it is important, isn't it?" 
 
 "Vital," said Mr. Waterberry. "Absolutely vital. 
 What can one do without good type? Nothing. 
 Nobody will read a badly printed paper." He 
 gazed into space, and then frowned again. 
 
 "Now I think we have settled everything about 
 this circular. Am I right?" 
 
 "Yes, now we've arranged about the italics." 
 Steele was still a little suspicious. 
 
 "Precisely. Well, then, all that remains now is 
 the agreement. And if I have it drawn up would 
 you be good enough to come in to-morrow to ap- 
 pend your signatures?" 
 
 "Yes, rather. What time?" 
 
 "About twelve, if that will be convenient?" 
 
 "Yes, that'll do me all right." Raymond nodded 
 too.
 
 86 PATCHWORK 
 
 "Very well then. I think we may congratulate 
 ourselves on a very good evening's business." He 
 smiled a smile as ineffably obscure as the Mona 
 Lisa. 
 
 "I will have this circular sent to the printers at 
 once." He dragged it from the chaos of papers 
 with which it was surrounded, and regarded it with 
 a beneficent, paternal air. "Yes, I think this 
 sounds admirable. Most admirable. It is bound 
 to attract. You're sure you think that we can dis- 
 pense with the asterisks?" He looked at Ray- 
 mond pathetically over the tops of his glasses. 
 
 "Yes, I don't think we want them." 
 
 "Provided the italics are all right," added Steele. 
 
 Mr. Waterberry wafted him a smile of absolute 
 tranquillity. 
 
 "Oh, there will be no difficulty at all about that. 
 No difficulty. Good evening." He opened the 
 door for them mysteriously, and they stumbled 
 down the narrow stairs into the noisy street.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 RAY MIXES HIS COLOURS 
 
 RAY was so occupied with The Isis and The 
 Oxford Mercury that he was a little taken 
 aback when, a week before the end of the term, 
 Tugly informed him that he would be given a "col- 
 lecer." 
 
 "My dear Tugly, how quite unkind of you! 
 You know I haven't done any work." 
 
 "That's why I think you ought to be examined." 
 "But how can I? I've only had eight weeks!" 
 "Never mind, you've still got five days." 
 Ray ran straight up to his room and cancelled 
 all his engagements for the next day or two on the 
 ground of work. There was something most un- 
 pleasant about an exam, just now — the first after 
 so long a period of inactivity. 
 
 However, in some ways he was glad of the 
 change. Of late he had certainly been overdoing 
 it. Every meal, every minute of the day seemed 
 to have been spent in being amused, or more often, 
 amusing other people. But here in his rooms, he 
 could sport his oak; take down from its shelf 
 Grant Robertson's "Statutes, and Documents," pour 
 
 87
 
 88 PATCHWORK 
 
 out a glass of sherry, put another log on the fire, 
 open a fresh box of cigarettes, and read and read. 
 There was something fascinating in so intense a 
 concentration, and he would sometimes wonder if 
 he had really chosen, in his passage through Ox- 
 ford, the right path. It would surely be a fine 
 thing to live for ever reading sunlit books in old 
 windows, or when the sun was gone to trace deli- 
 cately the misty lives of forgotten Puritans, to wear 
 their clothes, to speak their language. Moreover, 
 it would be a mode of escape, if it were staged as 
 Ray would stage it, from all the tight, glaring 
 things of to-day. Every day he would be in his 
 library, in his window, breathing the smell of 
 books blended with the scent of an unknown spring, 
 and every night would find him bent under his 
 green lamp. He would be able to take a pleasure 
 in studying his increasing age and feebleness, the 
 growing transparency of his yellow hands. . . . 
 
 Damn! Even when he tried to concentrate he 
 was more interested in the pose he was assuming 
 than in the work he was supposed to do. How- 
 ever, five days' hard reading of potted history, con- 
 tinued with the assistance of pints of black coffee 
 late into the night, managed to secure him an a(3 
 so he felt on the whole satisfied. If he could do 
 as well as that in five days, he ought to be all right 
 when the finals came.
 
 RAY MIXES HIS COLOURS 89 
 
 Meanwhile, finals were still a very long way off, 
 and during the vac. he engaged himself with prep- 
 arations for the summer term. Steele was in 
 France, amusing himself with the camp followers 
 of the Peace Conference in Paris, and consequently 
 most of the work devolved upon himself. How- 
 ever, Ray did not particularly mind. He liked hav- 
 ing a lot to do, and set himself to tackle The Ox- 
 ford Mercury. 
 
 Perhaps the most fascinating part of the cam- 
 paign was the manufacture of posters. For a few 
 days his room in Curzon Street was transformed 
 into a studio, and Lady Sheldon lamented plain- 
 tively that he spoilt all the furniture by sticking 
 pins into it, and all the rugs by covering them with 
 a coating of gold paint. Ray was very fond of 
 gold paint, which he had bought originally to colour 
 the baggy trousers of a misshapen pierrot, with 
 green fingernails and purple lips, whom he repre- 
 sented as reading a copy of the Mercury to a group 
 of pale pink apes. Then there was a wonderful 
 picture of a tiny man with a hump, sitting on an 
 elongated mushroom and blowing bubbles to the 
 moon, on each of which was written the name of 
 a contributor, the moon itself bearing the name of 
 the paper. But the picture on which he most 
 prided himself was one in which a crowd of dwarfs 
 and peacocks huddled together in terror before an
 
 9 o PATCHWORK 
 
 attenuated harlequin, clad in an elaborate cap and 
 gown, who was throwing, from a silver bag, copies 
 of The Oxford Mercury into their midst. Ray felt 
 considerable pride in these pictures, which were, in- 
 deed, rather brilliant improvisations, and refused to 
 listen to his mother who told him that they re- 
 minded her of the nightmares of a cocaine fiend. 
 
 From the Mercury he turned to The Isis. Of 
 course, since The Isis was a record of current 
 events, he could hardly write it in advance. 
 However, he felt he might as well do a few amus- 
 ing articles while he still had plenty of time. 
 What did amuse people at Oxford? Something 
 personal, probably. He remembered how a small 
 but decorative youth at Merton, Paul Harcourt, had 
 scandalised the university by appearing in corduroy 
 trousers, and had subsequently scandalised it still 
 more by appearing one night without any trousers 
 at all, explaining that they had been removed and 
 tied to a lamp-post by an unsympathetic horde of 
 intoxicated conventionalists. Ray sat down at once 
 and wrote, in free verse, 
 
 The Sad Story of the Young Gentleman from 
 Merton 
 "I will wear Cubist 
 Trousers," 
 He said. 
 
 "I will make Oxford beautiful. 
 I will make the High
 
 RAY MIXES HIS COLOURS 91 
 
 Hectic, 
 
 And the Corn 
 
 Crimson," he said. 
 
 "I will wear Cubist 
 
 Trousers." 
 
 (At this point Ray drew a picture of a thinly 
 disguised Harcourt setting out from a thinly dis- 
 guised Merton, arrayed in Cubist trousers and an 
 expectant look.) 
 
 However, the Philistines 
 (Who were not 
 Beautiful) 
 Beset him. 
 
 "We will not have Cubist 
 Trousers," they said. 
 "It is not nice to wear Cubist 
 Trousers," 
 They said. 
 "They are affected. 
 Let us de- 
 Bag him." 
 And they de- 
 Bagged him. 
 
 (Here a picture of the process of debagging.) 
 
 This is what always happens at Oxford 
 
 When one tries 
 
 To be 
 
 Decorative. 
 
 "We will wear Cubist trousers."
 
 92 PATCHWORK 
 
 Ray was rather pleased with this little story, 
 which was, in a way, symbolical of his own fight for 
 free expression. And the pictures were certainly 
 wonderful. 
 
 He was already being besieged with contribu- 
 tions, and had no idea that so many people in Ox- 
 ford wrote verse. He wished they would write 
 prose, instead of breaking into song unasked. 
 However, some of the verse was worth putting in, 
 for instance, Charles Clifford's sonnet, the very title 
 of which was worth a dozen sonnets. It was called 
 "Taedium Vitae: Vita Nova: Climax: Anti-Climax: 
 Taedium Vitae." 
 
 Less subtle, but probably more likely to be 
 popular, was "The 'Varsity Rag," by John Len- 
 nox: 
 
 Oh! You'll do it in your bath, you'll do it in the 
 
 town, 
 You'll do it in pyjamas and you'll do it in your 
 
 gown, 
 With the Jaggers Jazz, and the Coppers Craggers 
 
 Crawl, 
 And the Magdalen Meander, say, Kid, some ball ! 
 Oh ! the Trinity Twinkle and the Brasenose Bend 
 Will fairly wilt your collar down and kill you in the 
 
 end, 
 And the Wadham Waddle 
 Ain't all twaddle.
 
 RAY MIXES HIS COLOURS 93 
 
 And the dance they do at Balliol 
 Would tickle up Gamaliel, 
 And you can't sit near his feet 
 When he's doing that 'Varsity Rag. 
 
 Philip Arden eventually set this to music, and 
 during the subsequent Eights Week it was played 
 at all the dances, much to Lady Sheldon's delight. 
 
 What a lot there was to do! And yet it really 
 was amusing, and also an excellent way of point- 
 ing mild satire at the people who had annoyed him. 
 Fortunately Steele, in spite of the fact that he was 
 still in France, was of considerable assistance, and 
 sent a really brilliant article on the Union, fol- 
 lowed by a few criticisms of individual speakers. 
 Ray read these with delight: 
 
 "Mr. W. C. Sims (Christ Church) talks sense 
 in an engaging manner. 
 
 "Mr. C. E. Rice (St. John's) talks fair sense in 
 a fairly engaging manner. 
 
 "Mr. J. Pate (New College) talks in a very en- 
 gaging manner. 
 
 "Mr. C. R. Root (Christ Church) is a striking 
 orator in the grand — occasionally the baby-grand — 
 manner. 
 
 "Mr. G. R. Glanford (Magdalen) is a speaker of 
 considerable distinction. He also reads well." 
 
 There were a great many more in this manner, 
 and Ray sent them all off to the Holywell Press,
 
 94 PATCHWORK 
 
 and spent the next few days in correcting 
 proofs. 
 
 Meanwhile he continued to hear constantly from 
 his friends. Steele wrote often from Paris, where 
 he appeared to be assisting in the reconstruction 
 of Europe. Arden appeared one day at Curzon 
 Street, looking more like a Viking than ever in a 
 frock coat, and fell in love with Lady Sheldon, to 
 whom he dedicated his most sentimental song. 
 Arthur Stanton came to lunch, and carried off one 
 of Ray's Persian kittens, which subsequently went 
 mad, and had to be drowned. Life was certainly 
 full of incident, and before Ray realised it he found 
 Francis already packing his clothes. 
 
 "How these holidays have flown!" sighed Lady 
 Sheldon as she folded a tie and laid it in a corner 
 of the trunk. 
 
 "You ought to say 'vac.,' mother, now I'm at 
 Oxford." 
 
 "Very well, but they have, haven't they?" 
 
 "I know. But you're coming up for Eights 
 Week, aren't you? You really must, you know. 
 You said you would." 
 
 "Of course I will. Helen wants to come, too." 
 
 Helen was a cousin of Ray's whom he had known 
 ever since he was a small child in smocks. 
 
 "Oh, does she? Well, do let her come. I like 
 Helen. Besides, she wears such charming clothes."
 
 RAY MIXES HIS COLOURS 95 
 
 "Yes, she does." Lady Sheldon smiled. "I 
 think myself she wears a great deal too much." 
 
 "Too much?" Ray laughed. "Why, you said 
 the other day she hadn't got enough on." 
 
 "Oh, I didn't mean that. I meant too many. 
 She's sure to bring at least eight evening frocks, 
 and as we shall only stay four days, four of those 
 frocks will be unworn. Unless," she added, "she 
 falls in the river once every evening." 
 
 "Mother, you are an absurd old thing." 
 
 "I know, Ray. I'm afraid I'm getting old." 
 
 He got to Oxford in time for lunch on the next 
 day. It was delightful to see his rooms once more, 
 with their grey walls, the coloured pierrots in their 
 white frames, and the rows of books, powdered with 
 the faint dust of spring. As he stood in the door- 
 way, hat in hand, Ray regretted sincerely that 
 this would be his last term in these rooms. Or- 
 dinarily he would have had them for at least 
 eighteen months, but to-day the crush was so 
 great that he was allowed them for two terms 
 only. 
 
 However, he must make the most of this term 
 while he had it. The chestnuts had transformed 
 the court into a forest of clustering green, which 
 mercifully veiled the gaunt and spinster-like ugli- 
 ness of the College, and provided cool resting places 
 during hot hours, when it was too stuffy to work
 
 9 6 PATCHWORK 
 
 indoors. Ray took his flannels from his chest of 
 drawers and sallied out, clothed in white from 
 head to foot, to see if they had taken his punt to 
 Milham Ford. This was going to be a wonderful 
 term. 
 
 The punt was safely ensconced under the willows 
 at the ford, and Ray made his way back to Col- 
 lege. He looked in on the way to see Waterberry, 
 who greeted him effusively and told him that the 
 subscriptions for The Oxford Mercury were still 
 coming in, and that already nearly all the initial 
 cost of the first number was covered. That was 
 satisfactory enough. 
 
 He strolled up the High whistling the tune which 
 Arden had composed to Lennox's " 'Varsity Rag," 
 and was greeted by Steele, suit case in hand, look- 
 ing into the window of a bookshop. 
 
 "Hullo, Ray! Had a good vac? I say, how 
 perfectly brilliant!" 
 
 It was the poster for the Mercury — the man 
 blowing bubbles to the moon. 
 
 "I'm so glad you like it." 
 
 "Why, have you seen it before?" 
 
 Ray laughed. "My dear child, you behold the 
 artist." 
 
 "You? Good Lord, I'd no idea." He looked 
 at the picture again. "Oh yes, I see your initials 
 in the corner. You are a most horribly versatile 
 person."
 
 RAY MIXES HIS COLOURS 97 
 
 "Horribly isn't the word for it," said Ray, tak- 
 ing his arm. "Where are you going now?" 
 
 "Back to College." 
 
 "Well, walk with me as far as Holywell. I've 
 got to go and see The his people." 
 
 The chestnuts over the high wall at Exeter 
 seemed to give them benediction as they passed 
 underneath. 
 
 "This is going to be a wonderful term," said 
 Steele. 
 
 "I know. I've said that so many times myself 
 that I shall begin to doubt it soon." 
 
 Steele smiled. "Do you think you'll have any 
 time left over?" 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Well, I've got a new plan on." 
 
 "What, another?" 
 
 "Yes, it's simply terrific." 
 
 "I say, how splendid! What on earth is it?" 
 
 "I can't tell you^ for a day or two, because I 
 want to think it out. But we'll work it together. 
 I couldn't possibly do it without you. United we 
 stand, divided, etc." 
 
 Ray nodded. "A sort of Lloyd George, Bonar- 
 Law business." 
 
 "Which would you be?" laughed Steele. 
 
 "Oh, I don't know. They're both pretty inef- 
 fective. Anyway, here's Holywell, and I must fly. 
 Tell me as soon as you can."
 
 9 8 PATCHWORK 
 
 "Of course. So long." 
 
 At The Isis offices, too, he found everything go- 
 ing well. Every one seemed pleased to see him, 
 and Baines was most enthusiastic over the copy 
 Ray had sent during the vac. "We haven't had 
 anything like this — oh, not for years/' he said fer- 
 vently; "we'll make The Isis hum." 
 
 Ray thought that he would probably have to do 
 most of the humming himself. 
 
 He smiled. "Yes, we must get it going thoroughly 
 this term, because I shall probably only take it 
 on for one term." 
 
 Baines' face fell. "Oh, Mr. Sheldon," he said, 
 "you're not going down?" 
 
 "Oh, rather not, but I expect it'll take up a good 
 deal of my time, and you see, I've got a good 
 many other things on. . . ." Baines nodded rather 
 despondently. "Still," said Ray, "I'll see you 
 through this term all right. What I want to do 
 is to show the sort of attitude the paper should 
 adopt. I don't want it to degenerate into a sort 
 of semi-comic, semi-jingo business." 
 
 "Of course not," said Baines, not knowing quite 
 what he meant. 
 
 "And anyway, when I drop it, I'll put some- 
 body good in my place. That'll be all right, won't 
 it?" 
 
 "Oh, quite, Mr. Sheldon. Though I doubt if 
 we'll get copy like this again."
 
 RAY MIXES HIS COLOURS 99 
 
 Ray laughed and left Baines at the top of the 
 stairs, looking with paternal affection at a bundle 
 of proof-sheets. 
 
 He went back to Balliol feeling at peace with 
 all mankind.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 COTERIE 
 
 THE first number of The his was a brilliant 
 success. It was delightful to see the streets 
 splashed with the cheery dark blue of its paper 
 covers, and to see undergraduate after undergradu- 
 ate pass by, shading his eyes from the sun as he 
 imbibed Ray's witticisms in the leading article. 
 Ray bought ten copies and sent them to his friends. 
 He found Tugly reading one in Balliol quad. "A 
 most scintillating production, Ray. I wonder how 
 you manage to find time for the historical research 
 which was so evident in your last 'collecer.' " 
 
 "So do I, Tugly," laughed Ray. 
 
 Of course work was out of the question on days 
 like this. He felt capable of editing dozens of 
 papers, and founding innumerable societies, but it 
 was impossible to sit down and try seriously to take 
 an interest in Oliver Cromwell, or in Aristotle's 
 enunciation of the "good life." After all, the "good 
 life" merely meant the development to the full of 
 all one's faculties, including the physical, and that 
 was what he was doing now. 
 
 How superb it was, on mornings when the mist 
 ioo
 
 COTERIE 101 
 
 only gave promise of greater heat to come, to get 
 into a pair of old flannel trousers, to jump on a 
 bicycle and to skim down to Milham Ford, shirt 
 open, the wind in his ears, past scores of laborious 
 undergraduates trudging to their dusty lectures. 
 On these river mornings he would take some lunch, 
 and would soothe his conscience by throwing some 
 books on to the cushions, and lying back, would 
 turn over their pages lazily, while the smoke from 
 his cigarette drifted up in quivering spirals to the 
 tangled branches overhead. Aristotle seemed by 
 his clarity and by the perfect marshalling of his 
 arguments to introduce himself more gracefully in 
 the open air than in the stuffy confines of a sitting- 
 room, and even some of the ponderous weight of 
 Maine seemed lightened by these river breezes that 
 ruffled the water and drifted in, cool and clover 
 blown, from the open fields. 
 
 Soon after The his came The Oxford Mercury, 
 and both Ray and Steele were so overwhelmed with 
 congratulations that the river seemed to be the only 
 place where they could escape. 
 
 "It really is rather a brilliant first number," 
 said Steele, turning over the yellow cover. 
 
 Ray lay back and pulled lazily at the rope which 
 fastened their punt to the bank. "Yes, I know. 
 I'm awfully glad we did it, aren't you?" 
 
 "Rather. This article of Barroni's is a work of 
 genius."
 
 102 PATCHWORK 
 
 "Well, Barroni is a genius." Barroni was Presi- 
 dent of the Union, and was later to play an im- 
 portant part in Ray's Oxford career. 
 
 Steele smiled. "I know. I'm afraid he'll never 
 be a 'creature.' " 
 
 "Barroni? A creature? Good Lord, no." He 
 yawned. The heat was really rather oppressing, 
 even in this arabesque of breeze and shadow. "Do 
 read some of it to me. I've hardly had time to 
 read it properly myself yet. . . ." 
 
 "All right." 
 
 Steele sat up and read in a clear incisive voice: 
 
 "It was our sad amusement during our five years 
 of exile to think of Oxford as we knew her, and 
 as we should know her again. The children of 
 Oxford in the fields of Flanders would surely inspire 
 another one hundred and thirty-seventh Psalm. 
 The routine, the river, even the priggish discipline 
 of the place were a pleasant memory. By compar- 
 ison with our present state they were a golden vi- 
 sion of the future. 
 
 "We came back. But it was by the waters of 
 Isis that we sat down and wept when we remem- 
 bered Oxford. In truth we were ill at ease in the 
 Zion of our longing. A new generation had sprung 
 up in the land — a generation puny in numbers and, 
 perhaps for that very reason, more sedulous of dons 
 and ritual, more pharisaic than the Pharisees — and 
 we had come 'as ghosts to trouble joy.' And so we
 
 COTERIE 103 
 
 hardly recognised Oxford. But we, too, were un- 
 recognisable. We had forgotten, if we had ever 
 known, that we were Oxford. . . ." 
 
 "Isn't this exactly like Barroni?" said Steele. 
 "A wonderful sort of glittering richness." He 
 looked at the article again. "It's full of good stuff 
 — for instance: 'Too long have we allowed the past 
 of Oxford to be her present' — and 'There is nothing 
 really old about Oxford unless it be the dons.' And 
 I love this bit at the end : 'Oxford belongs to Youth, 
 to Enthusiasm, to Impulse, and to Laughter. She 
 is as young as her youngest undergraduate . . .' " 
 He put the book down. "It's too hot to read 
 any more," he said. "Besides, I wanted to talk to 
 you about the new scheme." 
 
 Ray sat up. "Good Lord! of course. I'd 
 forgotten all about it." 
 
 "It's to be a club," said Steele. "A vast 
 political club." Ray listened intently while he out- 
 lined the idea. Papers were all very well, but they 
 wanted something more than that. They wanted a 
 great organisation of young men who could meet 
 and band together to discuss and to endeavour to 
 solve some of the appalling problems with which 
 youth had been saddled by age. 
 
 "What about the Union, though?" asked Ray. 
 
 "Oh, the Union's no good. It's a totally 
 
 different thing. There's no unity about the Union. 
 
 You've got last-ditch Tories and Bolshevists all
 
 i<>4 PATCHWORK 
 
 mixed up together in one screaming muddle. We 
 want to get hold of anybody who's really progres- 
 sive. Of course I'm a Liberal really. . . ." 
 "Anybody with any decency is," replied Ray. 
 "But it's got to be a new Liberalism, d'you see?" 
 "Rather. It's a magnificent scheme." 
 They discussed it at length. Their ideas were 
 still vague, still shadowy, but behind them all there 
 was that intangible spiritual yearning for a better 
 world which was animating millions of young men 
 all over Europe, who had seen the ideals for which 
 they had given their blood mocked and trampled 
 upon by a cynical and disillusioned band of senile 
 diplomatists. To Ray it appealed particularly, 
 because, apart from the ordinary political element, 
 which would be entertaining enough, it would be 
 an organisation which might give voice, at long last, 
 to the cry of youth. He had, just then, a hatred 
 for anything that was old, as he explained to Steele. 
 "Yes, I know — we're out to tilt against the sort 
 of spirit that talks about the 'wisdom and experience 
 of age.' " 
 
 "'The wisdom and experience of age!'" Ray 
 leant forward indignantly. "Good God! It makes 
 me feel murderous. There's a monument to that 
 in France. Age! Of course, some old men are 
 perfect angels, but it's youth — youth that the 
 world wants. We're young now, and that's why 
 what we say is worth listening to. I'm sick and
 
 COTERIE 105 
 
 I'm tired of being exploited. Youth has always 
 been exploited. It's always had to fight — fight in 
 wars it doesn't understand and doesn't control. 
 And then we're told that it's all for our own good. 
 Blasted old poets, who ought to be ducked in slime, 
 write sonnets about 'The happy warrior,' and filthy 
 old men slobber about and say that 'to be young is 
 very heaven. . . . ' " He choked with indigna- 
 tion. 
 
 Steele looked at him admiringly. "I really 
 believe that if I put you on a pedestal you'd convert 
 the whole world." 
 
 Ray laughed hopelessly. "It'd be a pretty big 
 business, I'm afraid. Never mind, though, we're 
 doing our bit." 
 
 "We certainly are." 
 
 "I suppose we'll have to start in rather a small 
 way?" 
 
 Steele nodded. "Yes, we shall. And we'll 
 have to start, as a nucleus, with a sort of ordinary 
 political club." 
 
 "Liberal?" 
 
 "Yes, the new Liberalism." 
 
 "The new Liberalism!" Ray leant back and 
 stretched out his arms to a cloudless sky. 
 
 The first meeting to discuss the new club was 
 held two days later. Ray met Steele in Balliol lodge 
 after Hall, and they strolled along to St. John's
 
 106 PATCHWORK 
 
 together. A little group was waiting for them at 
 the gate. 
 
 The people whom Ray and Steele had attracted 
 round them were, by common consent, among the 
 most brilliant whom Oxford at that period could 
 produce. Leaning against the gateway, with a mas- 
 sive brow and a weighty, though as yet beardless, 
 jaw, was Whitety. Whitely was a scholar of New 
 College, with pronounced views on God and mar- 
 riage, against both of which British institutions he 
 cherished a fierce resentment. He always gave the 
 appearance of having descended straight from 
 Olympus, and Steele had said of one of his speeches 
 at the Union that "Mr. Whitely addressed the House 
 with a resonant voice, and in a manner which be- 
 trayed his divine origin." Ray was one of the few 
 people who really liked him, because he was almost 
 the only person who could make him laugh. 
 
 Next to him was Rodd, another New Collegian, 
 standing in the gate. He was always standing in 
 some gate or other (in a metaphorical sense), but 
 whether from bad luck or lack of conviction, he 
 never seemed to penetrate to the inner temple. He 
 was on this evening wearing a red tie. Ray foresaw 
 that there would therefore be difficulty. A Bol- 
 shevik in their midst would probably cause trouble. 
 
 Next to Rodd, and endeavouring, quite unsuc- 
 cessfully, to talk him down, was George Henry, a 
 handsome boy of about nineteen with enormous
 
 COTERIE 107 
 
 lambent eyes which seemed to soften, to a certain 
 extent, what would otherwise have been an almost 
 aggressive face. He was a Liberal to his very 
 straight backbone, and would undertake, without 
 the smallest hesitation, to draw up endless circulars, 
 sign innumerable letters, and make a new Liberal 
 programme every night, if he felt that by such 
 activities he would be furthering the Liberal cause. 
 The only other amusing person in the group 
 was Thomas Quill, in every way one of the most 
 remarkable characters in Oxford. Tall, drooping, 
 clean shaven, with a shock of straight hair, he would 
 have been striking enough however he had been 
 dressed, but he chose to accentuate his peculiarity 
 by bright check Norfolk jackets and strange silk 
 neckties. A wonderful cinnamon-coloured hand- 
 kerchief usually drooped pathetically from his 
 breast-pocket and another peeped shyly from under 
 his orange shirt cuff. However, perhaps the most 
 remarkable thing about him was his voice, which 
 was delicate and fluting, very high and soft — the 
 nearest approach to a swan-song which Ray had 
 ever heard. Tommy, being very comfortably off, 
 never exerted himself much, except to write a few 
 exceedingly precious poems in the freest of free 
 verse. Later, by a miracle which has never yet 
 been explained, he suddenly stood for the Presidency 
 of the Union and was elected. But even before 
 that, he was known by every one in Oxford, and
 
 108 PATCHWORK 
 
 liked too. He was extraordinarily kind-hearted, 
 and would ask successive batches of Indians to 
 lunch, not through any abstract belief in Anglo- 
 Indian friendship, but merely because he hated to 
 see how they were neglected by the rest of the 
 undergraduates. 
 
 As soon as Ray and Steele approached, the faces 
 of the watchers at the gate seemed to brighten and 
 to light up with a fresh inspiration. Ray smiled 
 as he saw the impression they made on these 
 people. He knew little about politics. Liberalism 
 was to him at present merely a vague though pas- 
 sionate faith. He had not nearly so profound a 
 knowledge, for instance, of the intricate industrial 
 matters of which Rodd was talking in harsh, incisive 
 little sentences. But he had, more than any of 
 them, a burning idealism, a fierce resentment at the 
 present order, and a capacity for putting his case 
 with a brilliance and a fluency which was rare 
 enough in any society, young or old. 
 
 After the usual interchange of greetings they 
 made their way to Barroni's rooms, clambered up 
 the stairs, knocked at the door, and trooped in — 
 Steele heading the procession, closely followed by 
 Ray. 
 
 Barroni's rooms, which tradition says were occu- 
 pied by Charles I, were perhaps the most magnif- 
 icent rooms inhabited by any undergraduate in 
 Oxford. There were two of them, each tall and
 
 COTERIE 109 
 
 panelled and furnished with oak made black by the 
 passing of three dark centuries. They passed 
 through the outer room, which was now used as a 
 dining-room, and found Barroni inside, standing in 
 front of the fireplace talking affably to a little bald- 
 headed professor. It was Professor Milton, whose 
 business was archaeology and whose passion was 
 politics, and who had been called in at the last 
 moment to give a touch of authority to the 
 proceedings. 
 
 Barroni himself was one of those people who 
 one feels instinctively were born for the softest 
 plush and the brightest gilt. He was a Jew, with 
 the blood of a noble Spanish family in his veins, and 
 like all the finest of his great race, he was extremely 
 proud of the fact. Laudably ambitious, and with a 
 brilliant, limber mind, he reminded one of a charac- 
 ter in a Disraeli novel. In fact, he seemed to have 
 modelled himself to a remarkable extent on Disraeli. 
 His speeches, which were superb, were loaded with 
 epigrams which glittered all the more brightly for 
 being delivered in a monotonous, somewhat nasal 
 voice. His perorations rolled out like the unfold- 
 ing of a heavy tapestry. He was a born speaker, a 
 born politician, and with all his brilliance, a generous 
 and a lovable figure. He had dramatised his career 
 at Oxford with an enviable success. He now found 
 himself President of the Union, and the possessor 
 of the most beautiful rooms in Oxford. Hence the
 
 no PATCHWORK 
 
 patrician attitude into which he had curved him'self 
 in front of the fire. 
 
 "Ah, the deputation," he said, advancing 
 courteously. "We must bring stools for the 
 ambassadors." He moved a heavy sofa a fraction 
 of an inch nearer the fireplace, and helped to arrange 
 a purple cushion to better advantage. 'And how 
 is Raymond? Professor, this is Mr. Raymond 
 Sheldon, the Northcliffe-Paderewski-Nyjinski and a 
 few other things of Oxford." 
 
 Ray bowed. He was getting used to that sort 
 of introduction now. 
 
 "Ah, Steele, too." He put his hand pleasantly 
 on Steele's shoulder. Barroni was courtesy itself. 
 He opened a magnum of champagne which soon 
 disappeared, and then produced Turkish coffee, 
 cigars, and old brandy. Half an hour slipped by in 
 this way and it grew so dark that the lamps were 
 lit, and flickered through their carved Venetian 
 bronze into the circle of faces below. 
 
 Eventually the little bald man in the corner 
 stirred. 
 
 "Perhaps," he said, and cleared his throat, 
 "perhaps it would be advisable to come more 
 strictly to the point." 
 
 The conversation during the last ten minutes had 
 been devoted exclusively to Lord Northcliffe. 
 
 Barroni bowed and resumed his attitude in front 
 of the empty grate.
 
 COTERIE in 
 
 "I understand," said Professor Milton, "that 
 these young gentlemen desire to form a political 
 club of more or less, shall we say, 'progressive' 
 principles?" 
 
 He looked at Barroni, who inclined his head 
 with a gesture which might have meant everything 
 or nothing. 
 
 "That was the original idea," said Steele. 
 
 The Professor peered at him through the gloom. 
 "Ah, Mr. Steele, is it not?" 
 
 Steele nodded. 
 
 "You were, I believe, the originator of the 
 entire scheme?" 
 
 "Mr. Sheldon and I," corrected Steele. 
 
 The Professor gazed in the direction of Ray, 
 who was lying on the seat by the window, smoking 
 a cigarette, and blowing cool drifts of smoke out in 
 the night air. 
 
 "Then, perhaps," he said, "one of you had 
 better outline the scheme which you have in 
 mind." 
 
 "Shall I, Ray?" Steele looked at him eagerly. 
 
 "Yes, please do." 
 
 Ray felt his enthusiasm, for the moment, over- 
 shadowed. This atmosphere was so perfect that he 
 was far more inclined to dream than to act. The 
 ideals of which, two days ago, he had spoken so 
 fervently on the river seemed now to be merged in 
 the shadows that stained restlessly the dark corners,
 
 ii2 PATCHWORK 
 
 the procession of life which came from Steele's lips 
 seemed barren and unreal compared with the starlit 
 garden outside the window. However, Steele spoke 
 very well. All the little group of faces seemed 
 concentrated on him. How strangely unreal they 
 looked in the flickering light; the whole room 
 indeed seemed a little unreal. Perhaps it was 
 because he was so close to the window. Outside 
 the long, still lawns of St. John's were barely dis- 
 cernible in the dark. Occasionally an undergraduate 
 would crunch by on the gravel beneath, and a scrap 
 of conversation or a snatch of song would drift up. 
 And then there would be silence again, broken only 
 by Steele's voice. 
 
 What was he talking about? Youth — Liberalism 
 — the chaos of the war — the League of Nations — 
 Ray listened to them in a dream. He knew that in 
 a day or two he would plunge into the contest with 
 renewed vigour, but for the moment he wanted to 
 stop still in this beautiful room, with its huge walls, 
 and its ceiling of wrought plaster-work, spattered 
 with shadows and broken lights. 
 
 Suddenly Steele stopped talking. Ray rubbed 
 his eyes and sat up. He supposed that he would 
 have to pay some attention to what they were 
 saying now. 
 
 Steele's speech had evidently been well received. 
 However, there were one or two exceptions: Rodd,
 
 COTERIE 113 
 
 for instance, had been audibly snorting, and broke 
 in now, with a slight stutter. 
 
 "Then I understand that this is to be a capitalist 
 club?" he said. 
 
 A slight sensation. "How do you mean?" 
 said Steele. 
 
 "Well, apparently you repudiate any form of 
 nationalisation. . . ." 
 
 Steele smiled. "Not necessarily," he said. 
 "The Liberal attitude is to judge a thing absolutely 
 on its merits." 
 
 "Well, then, it is to be a Liberal Club?" 
 
 Steele sat up in his chair. "Certainly, I think 
 — Liberal" (he intoned the adjective slightly) 
 "in the best sense of the word." 
 
 Rodd snorted. "As far as I know 'Liberal' 
 means the same thing anywhere, and personally I'm 
 afraid I hold the same views about Liberals as The 
 Daily Herald." 
 
 "What views does The Daily Herald hold?" 
 said Steele. 
 
 "That the Liberal party is a disgraced and a 
 disgraceful party." Having said this, he collapsed 
 like an evaporated balloon. 
 
 Professor Milton rustled uneasily from his 
 corner. 
 
 "Really," he said, and cleared his throat once 
 again, "I think Mr. Rodd is a little violent. I 
 have been a Liberal all my life" ("Hear, hear!"
 
 ii 4 PATCHWORK 
 
 from several corners of the room). "And I do not 
 feel either disgraced or particularly — er, disgrace- 
 ful." He gave a little apologetic smile to Rodd. 
 As he made no reply the Professor went on. . . . 
 "Of course I realise that in a club of this nature we 
 do not wish to impose stereotyped views on our 
 members. Far from that. But I do feel that we 
 should exclude, for the time being at any rate, the 
 more extreme kind of Socialist." He smiled again, 
 a weary little smile, and directed his eyes for a 
 moment to the red glow of Rodd's necktie. 
 
 "How do the other members feel about it?" 
 said the Professor, adjusting his eyeglasses, and 
 glancing vaguely round the room. 
 
 They had hardly time to reply, for Rodd chimed 
 in again. "I don't know how other people feel 
 about it," he said. "But personally, I do know that 
 I could never join a club of this sort." 
 
 Everybody seemed struck dumb by this 
 ultimatum. Rodd was a very senior man in the 
 university and was regarded as a great power in the 
 more intellectual circles. 
 
 Suddenly Ray, from his seat in the window, 
 said in a very blase voice, without turning his eyes 
 from his contemplation of the garden, "Then 
 why don't you form a club of your own?" 
 
 Everybody looked gratefully to Ray. They did 
 not seem to have thought of this rather obvious 
 alternative, or else they had not had the courage to
 
 COTERIE 115 
 
 propose it. Rodd snorted again. "Thank you, 
 Sheldon," he said, "for your advice." 
 
 "Not at all," said Ray. "It seems obvious, 
 doesn't it?" He smiled at Rodd sweetly. "You 
 apparently seem to disagree with something that 
 Steele said, so naturally you wouldn't want to join 
 us. By the way, what was it that you disagreed 
 with?" 
 
 Professor Milton rustled approvingly. "Yes," 
 he said, "I think that it would be interesting to 
 know that." 
 
 Rodd shrugged his shoulders. "I really don't 
 think I need go into all that. It's far too long 
 a question. Anyway, I know that I shouldn't 
 agree, so I'll say good night." He jumped up from 
 his chair, shook hands with Barroni, who stroked 
 him affably on the shoulder with a "So sorry, old 
 man," and then bowed and went out. 
 
 Everybody breathed a sigh of relief when he 
 had gone. Business proceeded apace. The world's 
 future was outlined in words glowing with youth 
 and enthusiasm. Everything was settled except 
 the name. 
 
 "What about calling it simply the Liberal 
 Club?" said Steele. That was vetoed. It wasn't 
 going to be simply a Liberal Club — it was going to 
 be a much bigger thing than that. 
 
 "Well, the Progressive Club?" suggested George 
 Henry doubtfully. A chorus of "Oh, Lord's"
 
 u6 PATCHWORK 
 
 quickly shoved this suggestion out of the way. 
 
 "The New Crusaders?" fluted Tommy Quill 
 from the floor by the fireplace. 
 
 "Rather esoteric, don't you think?" said 
 Whitely. 
 
 Perhaps it was. Tommy ran his hands through 
 his hair. Yes, it was a little esoteric. 
 
 "The Oxford Reform Club?" suggested Whitely. 
 
 That was repudiated as savouring too much of 
 dry-as-dust party politics. For the same reason 
 they rejected Barroni's proffered "Oxford Eighty 
 Club" and Professor Milton's "Oxford New 
 Liberal Club." 
 
 It seemed hopeless. What a damned nuisance 
 titles were! For some moments there was no 
 sound except that which came from the heavy 
 breathing of Whitely, who had adenoids. 
 
 Suddenly Ray spoke again. He had been 
 looking out at the sky, which was thick laid with 
 stars. 
 
 "What about The Star Club'?" he said. 
 
 Nobody answered. They were not sure whether 
 to reject it en masse or whether to welcome it as, at 
 any rate, original. There was something in the 
 late hour which made the idea of a Star Club more 
 acceptable than it might have been in the middle 
 of the day. 
 
 The Professor spoke. "I think," he said, 
 "that is a charming idea. I should very much like
 
 COTERIE 117 
 
 to belong to a Star Club. It sounds — well, just 
 what it should sound." 
 
 Tommy Quill nodded. "Bright star, would I 
 were steadfast as thou art. . . ." His melancholy 
 treble made every one laugh, and the suggestion 
 was carried nem. con. 
 
 "I only hope nobody thinks it's got anything to 
 do with astronomy," said Ray. 
 
 "They won't think that if you're in it, old 
 boy," Steele replied. 
 
 There was no time to settle anything else, 
 except that Steele should be President and Ray 
 Vice-President. They made their way out, down 
 the dark stairs, across the court. A sleepy porter 
 opened the gate for them, and they walked under 
 the trees in the Giler, towards Balliol. 
 
 "What shall I have to do as Vice-President of 
 this thing?" said Ray, as they got in. 
 
 "Oh, nothing much." 
 
 Ray yawned. "I don't suppose I should do it 
 if I had." 
 
 Steele smiled. "Well, we'll see," he said. 
 "Good night, Ray, and thanks awfully." 
 
 "Good night." 
 
 Ray went to his room feeling very tired. How- 
 ever, he was pleased with his evening's work. 
 Those rooms of Barroni's were delightful. Besides 
 the club might be a big thing. He saw visions of 
 himself leading the world, through the Star Club,
 
 nS PATCHWORK 
 
 to new possibilities of civilisation. The voice 
 of youth, the courage of youth, the idealism of youth 
 — what might they not achieve? 
 
 However, he realised that if he had many more 
 late nights, he would grow old before his time, so 
 he put out the light and went to bed with the 
 moon shining on his pillow.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 BLUE AND SILVER 
 
 BLUE skies and silver dawns, shadows of grey 
 and lavender, it seemed almost sacrilege to 
 spend so much time on politics amid such beauty. 
 But politics were to Ray, and to some of the young 
 men by whom he was surrounded, in themselves 
 a thing of beauty. Where there is a burning ideal, 
 and where there is the impulse and the inspiration 
 of youth, even the barren problems of industry and 
 finance may be transmuted into something rich 
 and glowing. They might be as dry as dust, but it 
 is, after all, from dust that sunsets are made. 
 
 Besides, there was all the delightful histrionic 
 side of the business, and a very pleasant sense of 
 importance and publicity. Posters of the Star 
 Club, announcing their principles and their pro- 
 gramme, were all over Oxford in a fortnight, 
 decorated at the top with a little blue star, the 
 emblem of the club. 
 
 Ray found Steele regarding one of these posters 
 in Balliol lodge. 
 
 "Looks rather well, doesn't it?" 
 
 "Yes, charming." 
 
 "It's going to make every other society in 
 119
 
 i2o PATCHWORK 
 
 the place pull up their socks. The Union, for 
 instance. By the way, are you going to the Union 
 to-night?" 
 
 "I wasn't thinking of going." 
 
 "Oh, do come, I'm speaking on the paper." 
 
 Ray raised his eyebrows. "Really? Oh well, 
 I think I will then." 
 
 So Steele was speaking on the paper! Ray 
 felt, for a brief moment, rather jealous. He had 
 himself neglected the Union, and not only had 
 he never spoken there, but he hardly ever went to 
 the debates. And yet, the Union was in many 
 ways the centre of Oxford political life. What 
 a fool he had been to neglect it! He remembered 
 now that the Presidency of the Union was in some 
 ways the highest honour which Oxford had to win. 
 Salisbury, Gladstone, Asquith, Birkenhead, Robert 
 Cecil, what masses of great men had, in their time, 
 been President of the Union! Why shouldn't he 
 follow in their footsteps? 
 
 He peered among the fluttering list of notices 
 to see what was the motion for that evening. 
 
 "That this House would deplore the introduction 
 of Prohibition into this country. 
 
 "Moved by Mr. C. A. Steele (Balliol). 
 
 "Opposed by Mr. C. R. Root (Christ Church). 
 
 "Mr. L. E. N. S. Marchmont (Christ Church) 
 will speak third.
 
 BLUE AND SILVER 121 
 
 "Mr. C. T. Knight (Worcester) will speak 
 fourth. 
 
 "L. Barron i, President." 
 
 Good Lord! that all those people should 
 speak and he should remain silent! Ray really 
 felt for a moment rather indignant. He would 
 certainly speak to-night, if possible sixth; and he 
 despatched a note to Barroni's rooms in St. John's, 
 requesting that he might be given a chance, and 
 asking him to dinner at the same time, to make 
 assurance doubly sure. 
 
 That night he went to the Union alone in 
 order that he might form his own impression, and 
 as he looked round this great hall he felt that 
 here was another kingdom which he might conquer. 
 
 The benches were crowded with undergraduates, 
 for they anticipated a rag, and naturally the 
 "government" side was far fuller than the "opposi- 
 tion" among which he himself sat. He saw 
 Whitely and a circle of fellow New Collegians on 
 the opposite bench. 
 
 "Hello, Ray, are you drunk, or are you really 
 'Pussyfoot'?" 
 
 "Both, probably," he laughed back. 
 
 "Are you going to speak?" 
 
 "Yes, I rather think I shall if I get a chance." 
 
 Whitely shuffled his feet with delight. "I 
 say, Ray's going to speak!" Ray noticed the
 
 122 PATCHWORK 
 
 expression of inquiry on their faces. It was evident 
 that they all knew him, although he had no idea 
 who they were. 
 
 He sighed and resumed his observation of the 
 room. It was long and very lofty, with a gallery, 
 and would seat a thousand without undue crowding. 
 On the floor of the House, against the opposite wall, 
 were three busts of ex-Presidents, Gladstone, 
 Salisbury, and Asquith, and the walls were hung 
 with photographs of past officers of the Society, 
 young men in check trousers and side whiskers, 
 bishops, archbishops, nonentities, statesmen, journal- 
 ists, all those men who sought and found in Oxford 
 not merely the life of a recluse, but a foretaste 
 of the life of encounter and opposition which the 
 Union gave so perfectly. The President's chair 
 on its raised dais was like a throne, and Ray found 
 himself wondering how he himself would fill it. 
 
 There was a short burst of applause and Barroni 
 entered, followed by a stately procession of his 
 officers, and took his seat in the chair. Then there 
 were the usual formalities — the secretary read his 
 minutes, the junior librarian "brought forward 
 his weekly list of books," and finally the debate 
 proceeded. 
 
 But as soon as it had really begun, Ray felt 
 once more disappointed. He had always looked 
 to the Union as a place where style, above every- 
 thing, was of importance. He had carried in his
 
 BLUE AND SILVER 123 
 
 mind a legendary picture of young men of perfect 
 carriage, perfect gesture, and perfect perorations, 
 delivering speeches which possibly did not mean 
 very much but which were at any rate perfectly 
 delivered. It was not so. Even the speech of 
 Steele, which was far the best of the four, was a 
 compromise between the spirit of youth and this 
 new spirit of stodginess which had appeared after 
 the war. There were hardly any irrelevancies. 
 And naturally the attention of the audience began 
 to wander. 
 
 The iron of war seemed to have entered more 
 deeply into the Union than into any other side 
 of Oxford life. Ray, as he watched the speakers, 
 noticed how self-conscious they were. They were 
 conscious that they were men. They were conscious 
 that they had, most of them, looked on death. 
 And hence a rigid determination, at all costs, to be 
 serious, to avoid anything which might savour 
 even vaguely of frivolity. How absolutely wrong 
 they were! They did not seem to realise that 
 by assuming this attitude they were, ipso facto, 
 capitulating to the enemy. They were admitting 
 they were beaten. Ray, like them, had been 
 shattered by the war, and like them he realised — 
 probably more acutely than most people would have 
 imagined — the vital necessity of serious thought 
 and deep concentration on the appalling problems 
 with which Oxford and the world were confronted.
 
 i2 4 PATCHWORK 
 
 But he also realised that not by this Prussianisation 
 of the intellect would any solution at length emerge. 
 They had to look, not forward, but back. Oxford 
 in the past had won her way to greatness "by 
 impulse, by enthusiasm, and by laughter." She 
 had discovered the colossal fact that between the 
 makers of epigrams and empires there is no essential 
 difference, for both rested on half-truths, both were 
 inspired by a spirit of enterprise, a spirit of proud 
 and often illogical superiority to the rest of man- 
 kind. 
 
 And therefore he longed, as he listened, to make 
 a speech such as those he imagined had been made 
 by the best men before the war. He caught 
 Barroni's eye, and he nodded. Good, he would be 
 able to speak sixth. He hurriedly took out a piece 
 of paper and scribbled down a few notes. This 
 creature who was speaking, this languid impossible 
 creature, drowning in statistics and lisping through 
 marshes of figures — he would be easy enough to 
 attack. He went on for so long that Ray had 
 plenty of time to write a complete refutation of all 
 he had said. 
 
 Eventually he sat down and Ray got up. The 
 President pointed to him: "Mr. Sheldon, Balliol." 
 There was some undecided applause and a certain 
 amount of laughter. No one knew whether Ray 
 could speak or not. They were very soon to find 
 out.
 
 BLUE AND SILVER 125 
 
 As soon as he stood up by the despatch boxes it 
 was evident to his hearers that Ray had about him 
 a quality which the other speakers most distinctly 
 lacked. He brought with him no notes, which was 
 one particularly welcome sign to an audience worn 
 out by the reading of many essays. Moreover, he 
 stood up straight and did not endeavour to hide 
 under the table. His first action was symbolic. 
 He had to defend Prohibition. And therefore he 
 reached out his hand for the carafe of water which 
 stood at his side, and leisurely poured some out, 
 held it up to the light as if it were a precious wine, 
 sipped it and set it down. 
 
 There was a ripple of delighted applause. It 
 was the old Oxford back once more, the Oxford of 
 legend and of laughter. 
 
 Ray carried this attitude through his entire 
 speech. He did not speak long, but he spoke 
 brilliantly enough to make his hearers wish for 
 more. The first part of his speech was nothing 
 more than a shower of epigrams — some good, 
 some astonishingly feeble, but delivered with such 
 rapidity and such fire, with so many waves of the 
 hand, so many entrancing gestures that the general 
 impression was that of a firework display. He 
 referred with pointed scorn to "the honourable 
 member who has just sat down, and who I trust 
 may soon sit up." He informed honourable mem- 
 bers opposite that they were walking on a political
 
 126 PATCHWORK 
 
 tightrope, and that it was not only the rope that 
 was "tight." Then after five minutes of this he 
 suddenly became serious, and spoke with a convic- 
 tion and a logic which is only possible to one who 
 does not believe in his subject. "The honourable 
 member might have done two things. He might 
 have sung the poetry of wine, he might have come 
 to the floor of the House crowned with vine leaves 
 and hurled the grapes of his good living into the 
 faces of his opponents, or he might have charmed us 
 with his chastity, and frozen us with the bitterness 
 of his illogical asceticism. But he had done neither 
 of these things. He was neither drunk nor was he 
 sober. He was neither corrupt nor was he convinc- 
 ing. He was neither charming nor was he chaste. 
 He . . . etc. . . . etc. . . ." 
 
 Peroration. And the applause certainly left no 
 doubt as to his success. 
 
 Ray did not wait for the remainder of the debate. 
 He made his way quickly through, voting, in his 
 haste, on the wrong side, and went out into the cool 
 of the star-lit garden. 
 
 So that was how things were! He was a 
 speaker. Whatever anybody might say about his 
 other accomplishments, they would certainly never 
 be able to deny that he could speak. And in some 
 ways it was the most wonderful gift of all. It was 
 even more exciting than playing the piano because 
 it was so infinitely more personal. While one was
 
 BLUE AND SILVER 127 
 
 speaking, one seemed to be living the lives of all 
 the people in the room, it was like having hundreds 
 of hands touching their hearts. He looked round 
 and saw Barroni, who had hastened out soon after 
 Ray for a breath of fresh air. 
 
 He came up. "My dear Ray, a thousand con- 
 gratulations!" he intoned. "I should have sent 
 you a note but you ran away so soon." 
 
 Ray flushed and smiled. "Thanks awfully, 
 Barroni. But there's really nothing to congratulate 
 me about." 
 
 "On the contrary, there's a great deal. You 
 made a most remarkable impression. Ve-ry re- 
 markable indeed. In fact, so remarkable that I feel 
 distinctly jealous." 
 
 "Oh, rot." 
 
 "Not in the least. But seriously, old fellow, 
 why don't you go in for it?" 
 
 "The Union?" 
 
 "Yes. You can talk much better than any of 
 these mediocrities." He indicated a little group of 
 undergraduates who were trooping out of the debat- 
 ing hall. 
 
 "Yes, but the point is what can I talk about?" 
 
 "Oh, that doesn't matter. If you're a speaker 
 you can talk with equal effect about anything from 
 modern tragedy to — well, tariff reform." 
 
 "I always imagined they were identical," laughed 
 Ray.
 
 i28 PATCHWORK 
 
 "They are. But you're avoiding the point. 
 Will you speak 'on the paper' next week?" 
 
 Ray shook his head. "Thanks awfully, but I 
 don't think I'll do anything till next term. Next 
 week is Eights Week and I shall be fearfully 
 busy." 
 
 Barroni looked disappointed. "Very well. Only 
 I wish you could have enlivened a few of the 
 remaing debates this term. You've no idea how 
 intensely boring it is to have to sit in that chair till 
 half-past eleven every Thursday night, listening to 
 pompous platitudes badly phrased and badly de- 
 livered." 
 
 Ray nodded. "I suppose it is." 
 
 "Nobody ever attempts to see the humorous 
 side of anything. They seem to think that it's 
 pro-German to make an epigram." 
 
 "Well, what on earth did they think of me?" 
 
 "Oh, you needn't worry about that. They 
 showed what they thought of you when you sat 
 down." He glanced over his shoulder. "Look 
 here, I must run back or I shall be accused of de- 
 serting my post. Sure you won't speak next 
 week?" 
 
 "I'm afraid so." 
 
 "Very well. But if you do change your mind 
 let me know." 
 
 "All right." 
 
 Ray passed through the iron gates, and made
 
 BLUE AND SILVER 129 
 
 his way down St. Michael Street with the echoes of 
 laughter still ringing pleasantly in his ears. 
 
 The next five days were spent in preparation for 
 Eights Week. Eights Week was really concentrated 
 Oxford, and Ray, in his desire to taste to the full the 
 life of Oxford at its best, allowed his other activities, 
 for the time, to be forgotten. 
 
 Lady Sheldon arrived on Tuesday, bringing 
 Helen Tavers with her as she had arranged. Ray 
 went with Steele to meet them at the station. 
 
 "How wonderful you both look!" He glanced 
 at Helen, a slim dark girl, with a face more like a 
 boy than a young woman, and a dress of white whip- 
 cord, with a little collar of silver cloth. His mother 
 was in grey. 
 
 "Redfern, isn't it?" he laughed as he gave her 
 a hug. 
 
 She smiled. "Yes, Ray, it is, and if you don't 
 stop it will look like Derry & Tom's." 
 
 "Sorry. This is Steele, whom I talked to you 
 about." 
 
 Introductions were difficult in this bustle of 
 porters and suit-cases, so they went outside and 
 got two hansoms. Ray climbed into the first with 
 his mother, and Steele and Helen brought up the 
 rear. 
 
 "How thoughtful of you to get such wonderful 
 things to ride in!" said Lady Sheldon, as they
 
 i 3 o PATCHWORK 
 
 swept along. "I haven't ridden in a hansom for — 
 oh, centuries. London used to be so charming 
 when the hansoms were still there. So festive, and 
 not so terribly petrolfied. But Oxford's far nicer 
 than London. What is that?" She pointed to 
 Worcester. 
 
 Ray told her. 
 
 "Is it a college?" 
 
 "Oh, rather. It's quite lovely inside." 
 
 "Oh, I remember now. There's Balliol. How 
 hideous it is, isn't it? And here's Turl Street." 
 
 "We call it the Turl." 
 
 "Of course. Wasn't there a play once called 
 'The Earl and the Turl'? Or was it the Girl? 
 How silly I am! Ray, don't let me be so silly. 
 And anyway, isn't this the Mitre?" 
 
 They got down, and Ray handed over Helen 
 and his mother to the head waiter, a great friend 
 of his. 
 
 After lunch they went down to the river. How 
 delightful Eights Week was! If it was like this 
 now, what must it have been before the war? The 
 river was pandemonium. So many frocks of blue 
 and white, so many butterfly parasols — even tea on 
 the barge was charming, although the heat was such 
 that the paint blistered in the sun, and the pink 
 cakes had long ago melted. However, Ray felt 
 cool enough, especially when after tea they went on
 
 BLUE AND SILVER 131 
 
 the river and drifted away from the chattering 
 multitudes, slowly down stretches of green water, 
 deep into the land of the white hawthorn. 
 
 Three days sped by in this way. Ray lost all 
 count of time, and gave himself up whole-heartedly 
 to the revel. There were lunches at the Mitre, 
 wonderful lunches at which nobody knew who was 
 coming, though whoever did come was welcome, and 
 ate his salmon mayonnaise and fruit salad, and 
 sparkled over his cool white wine. There were 
 wonderful dinners in College, dinners of a mock 
 stateliness such as Barroni gave on the following 
 day in his rooms, lit with candles and fragrant 
 with the scent of wallflowers and wisteria which 
 drifted in through the cavernous open windows. 
 The his double number appeared and was pro- 
 nounced brilliant, and Ray's article on the Union, 
 entitled "L'Union fait la farce," although it an- 
 noyed Barroni, was the cause for a good deal of 
 congratulatory chaffing. 
 
 And then came the special number of The 
 Oxford Mercury, with Ray's sonnet sequence, Bar- 
 roni's Disraelian satires, Tommy Quill's delicious 
 parodies of Masefield, Steele's exposition of Liberal 
 principles, and a good deal else besides. Black- 
 well's window was a blaze of orange, which rapidly 
 disappeared before the locust hordes of visitors who 
 desired to see what young Oxford was thinking, and
 
 i 3 2 PATCHWORK 
 
 a second impression was not only called for but 
 sold, a remarkable event in the annals of under- 
 graduate journalism. 
 
 Even breakfasts were public festivals, and every 
 morning, at half-past nine, Ray would walk down 
 the Turl in white flannels and wait in the Mitre 
 with a group of laughing friends till his mother 
 came down the dark old stairs, with many pretty 
 apologies for being so late. Oxford before break- 
 fast was a city of sheer delight, limpid and washed 
 with pale morning gold, white streets, grey spires, 
 green chestnuts. . . . 
 
 And then, of course, there were the dances. 
 Never did Ray feel so vital as at a dance, never did 
 Oxford look so wonderful. Even Balliol, when she 
 danced, acquired a sort of elfin mystery, and hung 
 her trees with glowing orange and pink magic 
 lanterns, while the House ball altogether defied 
 description. 
 
 It was the last ball of the season, and Ray 
 decided that they would dine at the Mitre alone — 
 his mother, Helen, and himself. He felt brimming 
 over with energy. 
 
 "Let's be perfectly marvellous to-night, shall 
 we?" he said to Helen. 
 
 "We are being." 
 
 "You are. Am I? I wonder. I feel inclined 
 to rush round and embrace everybody. Things
 
 BLUE AND SILVER 133 
 
 have only just started, really. Isn't it lovely to be 
 surrounded by so many people you don't know, but 
 who all know you? I'm sure that's the only 
 reason that anybody becomes Prime Minister 
 or anything at all — just because they want to 
 walk down the street and be known by simply every- 
 body. It must be astonishing to drive down huge 
 broad streets, and take off one's hat with a charm- 
 ing sort of smirk. Oh, my dearest mother, I must 
 be Prime Minister." 
 
 "Of course you must, Ray." 
 
 He turned to Helen. "Isn't it an awful 
 prospect to think you're going to be governed by 
 somebody whose only ambition is to take off his 
 hat to people?" 
 
 She shook her head lazily. "Not in the least. 
 It's a very laudable ambition. Besides, you'll look 
 so charming in Downing Street. It's where you 
 obviously ought to be." 
 
 "No one with a temperament is ever where 
 they ought to be." 
 
 "Is that an epigram?" 
 
 "No, it's a faded relic of the nineties. Any- 
 way, never mind what it is. I've been making 
 epigrams all day." 
 
 "How dreadfully clever you all are!" sighed 
 Lady Sheldon.
 
 i 3 4 PATCHWORK 
 
 "I know. Isn't it hateful of us? And mother 
 dear, you're looking rather tired." 
 
 She smiled rather pathetically. "I think I am 
 a tiny bit tired," she admitted. 
 
 Ray put his hand on hers. "You're a perfect 
 angel, but you are fearfully wicked." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because you never will look after yourself. 
 Now, if I had anything the matter with me — the 
 most absurd little thing — you'd insist that I saw 
 heaps of doctors and drank dozens of things, and 
 ate quantities of food and drowned myself in milk, 
 and generally recuperated. But you never do 
 anything like that yourself." 
 
 "I know. But then I'm older, you see." 
 
 "Rot!" 
 
 "My dear Ray, I must be a little older or I 
 couldn't be your mother." 
 
 Ray bowed to this invincible logic. 
 
 "Hens must come before eggs, mustn't they? 
 Now I really think that was a clever thing to say, 
 wasn't it?" She appealed to Helen. 
 
 "It would have been," interrupted Ray, "if 
 you bore the smallest resemblance to a hen, or if I 
 were in any way — what's the adjective meaning 
 eggy? — ovine? Or is that the name of one of 
 the patent foods I have to take when I have a 
 cold? I don't know, you are rather brilliant 
 though, mother, because as usual you've switched
 
 BLUE AND SILVER 135 
 
 the conversation off yourself, and as usual I've 
 turned it on to me. Helen, how do you stop being 
 egotistical?" 
 
 "I don't." 
 
 "I know. No, please don't throw olives at me. 
 But how would you if you could?" 
 
 "I wouldn't. Besides I couldn't." 
 
 "How trying you are!" 
 
 "Am I really?" She laughed. 
 
 "Dreadfully. 'She only does it to annoy 
 because she knows it teases.' I am quoting, so 
 you must excuse the crudity of the language." 
 
 "Well, let's talk about something else." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Women," suggested Helen. 
 
 "Oh no. You should never start with women. 
 You should always experiment on something else 
 first" 
 
 "Well, education?" added Lady Sheldon faintly. 
 
 "Mother dear, how terribly morbid of you! 
 How can I talk about education in Oxford?" 
 
 "Can you talk about anything at all in 
 Oxford?" 
 
 "About anything, yes. Never about some- 
 thing, though. Of course we're rather slipshod 
 at times. . . ." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Well, Oxford's the home of lost clauses." 
 
 Helen clapped her hands. "Good little Ray!"
 
 136 PATCHWORK 
 
 They went on to the dance alone, because Lady 
 Sheldon was so tired that Ray insisted that she 
 should go to bed. He had bought her a great 
 bunch of yellow roses, and laid them on her 
 dressing-table. 
 
 "Ray, you have been so kind to me," she said, 
 as she kissed him good night. 
 
 "Mother, you absurd creature, as if I could be 
 anything else if I tried. Good night." 
 
 "Good night, Ray." 
 
 The next two hours were spent at the House, 
 dancing incessantly with Helen or with any one else 
 to whom he was introduced. So intoxicating was 
 the influence of the music, the vast lighted hall, the 
 innumerable fairy lights which lay like monstrous 
 luminous necklaces against the dark roofs in the 
 quad, that it was not till nearly 'one, when the dance 
 was only half-way through, that he realised that he 
 felt tired. He sought Helen, who was sitting 
 alone in a corner of the cloisters. They had supper 
 together and then went back to the ballroom. 
 
 "Shall we dance the next one?" 
 
 Helen shook her head. "No, let's watch for 
 a bit." 
 
 "All right." 
 
 The band had only just started, and the floor 
 was a blank, shining waste, fringed with fluttering 
 frocks and white arms. Suddenly a couple detached 
 themselves from the side and took the floor. As
 
 BLUE AND SILVER 137 
 
 usual in a very large ballroom, all eyes were upon 
 them. Ray expected to see the usual apologetic 
 and self-conscious walk, and the expression of 
 anguished entreaty for others to join in. But no 
 sooner had they started to move than he caught 
 his breath with admiration. A few slow, graceful 
 steps, and then a lightning "twirl" right down 
 the centre of the room. He had once seen Harry 
 Pilcer do the same step with his partner in Paris, 
 but never had he seen anything approaching this. 
 Like two rose-leaves caught in a river eddy they 
 drifted and twined, light as air. And then, with 
 a break in the music, they suddenly stopped, dead 
 still. The pose was daring, exaggerated, theatrical, 
 but it was so superb that a ripple of applause 
 echoed round the room. 
 
 He turned to Helen, who was watching equally 
 eagerly. 
 
 "My God!" he said. "Did you see that? 
 I'd no idea that modern dancing could be so 
 astonishingly beautiful." 
 
 "Who are they?" 
 
 "I don't know. But I shall very soon find 
 out." He looked at them again, but already the 
 floor was filling with couples performing the usual 
 aimless circles. "How these creatures have the 
 impudence to get up and waddle about after that, 
 beats me entirely." His eyes rested indignantly 
 on a stout matron in front of him who had just
 
 i 3 8 PATCHWORK 
 
 risen. From the extraordinary curves and angles 
 into which she immediately bent herself, it was 
 probable that she had distinctly heard what he said. 
 
 However, he was too excited to care for any- 
 body. He watched the couple as they danced their 
 way round the room. How exquisite they were! 
 Ray had never realised that ballroom dancing 
 could approach such perfection. Even in this 
 glittering crowd they stood out clearly. He 
 wondered who the girl was, with her wine-yellow 
 satin, and the clustering clematis in her hair; 
 against these stern old walls she seemed to shine 
 like a firefly. And the boy — it was incredible 
 that he could be an undergraduate. He was so 
 consummate an actor, although he could not have 
 been more than twenty years old. He held himself 
 perfectly — the pose of his head was rather cheeky, 
 and his eyes lighted with a sort of contemptuous 
 amusement as he steered through the mediocrities 
 by whom he was surrounded. Of course, he was 
 infinitely the better dancer of the two. Without 
 him the girl would have been merely a pretty 
 nobody. 
 
 Suddenly the music stopped. He looked at 
 Helen. 
 
 "You're engaged for the next, aren't you?" 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 "Well, I shall run away, then. I simply must 
 find out who that boy is."
 
 BLUE AND SILVER 139 
 
 He jumped up and made his way through the 
 crowd. At first he thought that he had lost him, 
 but he caught sight of the girl's yellow dress on 
 the lighted stairs. She was just saying good-bye 
 to her partner, and wandered back to the ballroom, 
 while he went downstairs and out into the cloisters. 
 
 Ray ran after him. 
 
 "I say," he began; "I hope you'll forgive 
 me, but I simply had to come and tell you how 
 perfectly marvellous I thought your dancing was." 
 
 The other laughed and blushed. "Oh no, it 
 wasn't," he said. 
 
 "Excuse me, but it most certainly was. Look 
 here, are you dancing the next?" 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "Well, couldn't we sit it out together? I 
 shan't feel happy till I've repeated myself at least 
 a dozen times." 
 
 He paused undecidedly. Then he saw that Ray 
 was in earnest. 
 
 "All right, let's sit here." They went over to 
 an empty corner, and sat down in striped deck 
 chairs. 
 
 Ray produced his cigarette case. "Will you 
 smoke? Yes — those are Turkish. And, by the 
 way, I ought to introduce myself — my name's 
 Sheldon. . . ." 
 
 "Oh, I knew that," laughed the other. "Mine's 
 Yorke — David Yorke."
 
 i 4 o PATCHWORK 
 
 "But you're not up at the 'Varsity, are you?" 
 
 "Oh yes. Why not?" 
 
 "Well," Ray smiled, "I don't really know. 
 But it struck me that no undergraduate could 
 possibly dance like that." 
 
 He hoped Yorke wasn't offended. While he 
 was dancing he had seemed to be so superbly self- 
 confident, so utterly contemptuous of everybody 
 around him. Now he was sitting here he gave the 
 appearance of being rather shy. His cheeks were 
 flushed, and his eyes looked restlessly round as 
 though he were ashamed of his recent triumph. 
 
 "I hope you don't think me extraordinarily 
 impertinent?" 
 
 Yorke lifted his eyes frankly to meet Ray's. 
 "No," he said, "I just think you are extraor- 
 dinarily kind. At first I thought you might be 
 ragging, but I see now that you aren't." 
 
 "Ragging? Good Lord, as if I should rag about 
 a performance like yours!" Ray lifted his hands 
 in an eloquent gesture. 
 
 "Well, the people at Trinity do." 
 
 "Are you at Trinity?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Oh, well, let them. I shouldn't care a damn 
 what they say." 
 
 "I don't really." 
 
 "That's just what struck me most. When you 
 started off — absolutely alone — with that amazing
 
 BLUE AND SILVER 141 
 
 sort of blase, let-the-rest-of-the-world-go-to-the- 
 devil look — I — well, I thought I should burst. My 
 dear boy, you're an absolute genius." 
 
 They both laughed. 
 
 "It was rather amusing, certainly," said Yorke. 
 "Of course, all these people here probably think it's 
 vulgar, or something like that, but still . . ." He 
 paused. 
 
 "Let them think what they like. Personally I've 
 got the utmost contempt for almost everybody in 
 the 'Varsity." 
 
 "You?" Yorke looked at him in astonishment. 
 
 "Yes, haven't you yourself?" 
 
 "Well, perhaps, in a way, I have." He looked at 
 Ray doubtfully, as though he were still uncertain 
 as to whether he were pulling his leg. "But with 
 you I should have thought it would have been dif- 
 ferent — you see, you're such a blood." 
 
 "Blood? This is only my second term." 
 
 "Oh, I know, but you've done almost everything 
 there is to do — everybody knows who you are. It's 
 quite different for you — you can say what you like. 
 Besides," he stretched out his feet and kicked away 
 a loose pebble, "you've got so many other interests." 
 
 "I'm not half so interested in all these absurd 
 things as some people think I am," returned Ray. 
 "I only do them because it gives me something to 
 think about. Besides, people get jealous, and it's 
 amusing for people to get jealous."
 
 1 42 PATCHWORK 
 
 They talked on, strangely intimate talk consider- 
 ing they had only met five minutes ago. However, 
 when the music started after the next dance, Yorke 
 got up. 
 
 "I must run," he said. "It was most awfully 
 kind of you to come along like that." 
 
 "I'm jolly glad I summoned up the courage," said 
 Ray. 
 
 Yorke hesitated a moment. "By the way, are 
 you doing anything after the dance?" 
 
 Ray shook his head. "Not unless I go to bed." 
 
 "Well, I thought of going on the river. I 
 suppose you wouldn't care to come?" 
 
 "I should simply love to." 
 
 "That's ripping. Then shall I meet you in the 
 quad after they've taken the photo?" 
 
 "All right. Thanks awfully." 
 
 "So long, then." He turned and walked quickly 
 into the lighted entry. 
 
 Ray felt no inclination, at that moment, to fol- 
 low him. He was afraid that if he saw him dance 
 again he might be disappointed. But apart from 
 his dancing, what a charming fellow he seemed to 
 be! He was totally unlike any other undergradu- 
 ate he had ever met. He was so extraordinarily 
 natural and unspoilt, and yet he contained in him 
 just that capacity for opening people's eyes, for 
 taking the limelight, for advertisement, which he 
 himself found so diverting.
 
 BLUE AND SILVER 143 
 
 Advertisement! He wandered out into the open 
 quadrangle. Somehow, in this fairyland of green 
 and silver, the idea of advertisement seemed intoler- 
 ably out of place. And yet at present it was, after 
 all, the guiding principle of his life. Great crowds, 
 the glitter of lights, music, flowers — they all seemed 
 to urge him on to do great things. What he had 
 laughingly said to Helen at dinner — about becom- 
 ing Prime Minister in order that he might take off 
 his hat to people — had in it an element of truth. 
 It was the histrionic in life, in politics, in art, that 
 appealed to him. That explained his incapacity for 
 the ordinary ways of scholarship. But on the other 
 hand he would spend hours preparing a speech, be- 
 cause he knew that he would know the joy of living 
 when he delivered it, he would taste in advance the 
 sweetness of applause. He would spend days in 
 practising some etude to play at a concert, for the 
 same reason. No, that was exaggerating. He 
 would have played just as well if he had never had 
 any audience but himself. And after all, he did 
 believe in all the things of which he talked and 
 wrote so brilliantly. Or, didn't he? Anyway it 
 was far too beautiful a night to bother about that 
 sort of thing. 
 
 He wondered how Yorke was dancing now. 
 Should he go in and watch again? No, he decided 
 that he wouldn't. He would probably be disap- 
 pointed. Besides, it was so beautiful out here.
 
 i 4 4 PATCHWORK 
 
 Helen was booked up for the rest of the night, so 
 there was no necessity to dance any more. He lay 
 back in his chair and fell into a doze. 
 
 He was conscious all the time of music and laugh- 
 ter in the distance, of the soft rustle of dresses, and 
 low voices echoing in the cloisters. He was con- 
 scious too that the night was fast giving way to 
 day. The luminous necklaces of fairy lights flut- 
 tered out one by one till they were all quenched by 
 the first signs of dawn. It shone over the dim roofs 
 as a silver feather in the East. It was joined by 
 other feathers, and finally it seemed to his dream- 
 ing mind that a monstrous and brightly coloured 
 bird was rising majestically in the sky, and spread- 
 ing its gorgeous wings over the whole earth. He 
 rubbed his eyes and saw that it was indeed day. 
 
 After the photograph had been taken, he took 
 Helen home, and getting into flannels sped down 
 the white road on a bicycle to Milham Ford. He 
 felt once more wide awake and drank in the keen 
 air. David was waiting for him by the river. 
 They sheered off gently from the landing stage, and 
 swung out into mid-stream, under Magdalen bridge 
 and the green gloom of overhanging chestnuts. 
 Past larches, tremulous and ecstatic in the light 
 breeze, past hedges, gay with pink flowering thorn, 
 past fields of long lush grass dotted with wind- 
 flowers and wild dog-daisies, under the sudden rush
 
 BLUE AND SILVER 145 
 
 of the weir, crisp and sparkling in the sun, down 
 cool curving avenues of dark trees. 
 
 "Not tired?" 
 
 David shook his head. 
 
 Ray lay back and looked up at the blue and 
 golden spaces of the sky. It had been raining dur- 
 ing the night, and the hanging hedgerows were still 
 wet, and shed their dew like diamonds as the pole 
 touched them. Never had there been so fragrant 
 a morning. Before this translucent loveliness the 
 night's revel seemed to fade into a memory of tin- 
 sel and powder. 
 
 Here indeed, he felt, was the Oxford he had been 
 seeking. Here, in this paradise of shadowed green, 
 was Oxford's * secret. Through trees one could 
 catch a glimpse of blossoming spires, white as ivory 
 against a background of blue. He suddenly real- 
 ised, with a twitch of pain, how transient it all was. 
 While he was here, living this marvellous life, 
 laughing this wonderful laughter, and dreaming 
 these magnificent dreams, he was still young. He 
 could still look up to the sky and thank God for the 
 spring. But after? 
 
 He felt he must drain even more passionately 
 than he had done already the cup while it was still 
 at his lips. He could have leaped into the mead- 
 ows and rolled in the grass, and gathered all the 
 flowers and crushed them in one mass of intoxicat- 
 ing sweetness to his face. He felt inclined to laugh
 
 i 4 6 PATCHWORK 
 
 and cry and sing and meditate all at once. Life 
 was so damned short. 
 
 "I say, you'll upset us if you don't look out." 
 
 "Awfully sorry." Ray laughed happily. "But 
 why not let's get in?" 
 
 "What, here?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 David paused, and then smiled. "It would be 
 rather priceless," he said. "Fearfully cold, though." 
 
 "Oh, no, it won't." 
 
 Already he had pulled off his sweater. He 
 kicked away his white shoes, stripped off his flan- 
 nels and stood for a moment, his white limbs gilded 
 by the sun, his face flushed and exultant — and then, 
 a rush of green water and a choking sensation of 
 icy freshness. 
 
 David followed him in an instant, and for a few 
 minutes they shouted and splashed. Then with 
 much panting and more bad language they clam- 
 bered out, dried themselves. hastily and took it in 
 turns to punt back to get warm. 
 
 The effect of the water had been to make both 
 of them overwhelmingly sleepy. They walked back 
 slowly through quiet streets, and Ray bade good- 
 bye to David outside the great gates of Trinity. 
 
 Yes, it had been a wonderful term.
 
 PART II
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 MIDSUMMER MADNESS 
 
 LADY SHELDON had departed to the country 
 by the time that Ray reached London, and so 
 for the next month he had Curzon Street to himself. 
 He was, indeed, rather glad to have this time alone, 
 in order that he might attempt after so much carni- 
 val to settle down, "to shake the rose leaves from 
 his hair. . . ." Moreover, it was high time that he 
 attempted to do some work. And so he went out 
 but little, and employed his time principally in read- 
 ing political science. There was an almost physi- 
 cal satisfaction in allowing his heated imagina- 
 tion to cool itself in the grandiloquent phrases of 
 the "Great Leviathan." It was like wandering 
 down some long, dusky corridor after coming out 
 of a brilliantly lighted ballroom. In these pages 
 there was nothing to stimulate the imagination 
 there were no colours to inflame still more his senses, 
 only a calm and peaceful exercise of the intellect. 
 Indeed, he grew so fond of Hobbes that he ordered 
 from Hatchard's a seventeenth-century edition, 
 bound in old brown leather, and with the original 
 frontispiece of the Great Leviathan, a giant made 
 
 149
 
 i 5 o PATCHWORK 
 
 up of the myriad bodies of tiny human beings. 
 The rich but simple beauty of Hobbes' language 
 seemed enhanced as he explored the theory of sov- 
 ereignty through these stained and yellow pages 
 of rusty print, and he spent many prolixious days 
 in obtaining an aesthetic enjoyment of the atmos- 
 phere of the seventeenth century. 
 
 However, he managed in this month to get 
 through quite a fair amount of work. The unrest 
 which had troubled so terribly his brain in the days 
 of his first term at Oxford seemed now, if not gone, 
 at any rate perceptibly mitigated. In those days 
 it had seemed impossible to work at all — nothing 
 would bring satisfaction but movement and laugh- 
 ter and light. But now, for the moment, he felt 
 that he had had enough of those. . . . He was 
 tired. Even to try to discover by reflection if he 
 had in any way succeeded in his self-imposed task 
 of restoring the old Oxford seemed to be a bore, 
 and it was far more satisfactory to go upstairs to 
 his cool sitting-room and spend the long summer 
 evenings bent over the pages of some volume of 
 political history. 
 
 He had never realised before how fascinating 
 history could be. It seemed to be merely another 
 means of multiplying one's own personality. He 
 saw himself clothed in the slashed sleeves and the 
 gay linings of a Piers Gaveston, parading old ter- 
 races and carrying on illicit amours under the red
 
 MIDSUMMER MADNESS 151 
 
 noses of an outraged and wooden-faced nobility. 
 He saw himself again, the favourite of James I, 
 playing with the susceptibilities of an entire people 
 merely because his face was charming and his 
 character vivid. Or, if he were feeling less pro- 
 vocative, he would taste with Charles James Fox 
 the delight of throwing the waves of his oratory 
 against the immutable lines of hard-faced men that 
 filled the eighteenth-century House of Commons, or 
 would live against those immortal moments when 
 Disraeli seared the soul of Peel with the vitriol of 
 his epigrammatic artificiality. Disraeli was, indeed, 
 in many ways Ray's ideal politician. He regretted 
 the fact, because it was an admiration which he 
 had to share with so many unintelligent people, but 
 nevertheless the career of Disraeli had about it a 
 flavour of the rococo which was lamentably lacking 
 in the lives of men like Melbourne and Palmerston, 
 whose sole efflorescence seemed to be confined to 
 whiskers. Many was the night that Ray would 
 pace the room, holding in one hand the speeches of 
 Disraeli and waving the other with imaginous ges- 
 tures, while he drawled the polished periods which 
 had once fallen from Disraeli's lips. He even ran- 
 sacked his chest of drawers for black cravats, and 
 whitened his face and combed the wavy hair over 
 his forehead, in order that he might stand in front 
 of the long glass, and believe that he was indeed 
 the character which he was impersonating.
 
 1 5 2 PATCHWORK 
 
 And so a month passed by in which he was en- 
 tirely engaged in assimilating history, and he almost 
 forgot that up till now his chief preoccupation had 
 been the youthful hope that he was making it. 
 But he still kept in touch with his Oxford followers. 
 Steele wrote constantly from Germany, where he 
 appeared to be discovering and repudiating all the 
 most intriguing vices. Mr. Waterberry ceaselessly 
 sent his ideas for The Oxford Mercury, and there 
 were long letters from David, letters full of the sun 
 and the open fields. He was staying in Hereford- 
 shire, quite near the house which Lady Sheldon had 
 taken for the summer, and Ray looked forward with 
 an intense pleasure to seeing him again. 
 
 Eventually London became too hot to work, and 
 he packed his books, and departed to join Lady 
 Sheldon. It was really rather a relief to get away 
 from this city of hot asphalt and perspiring 
 crowds, and as he greeted his mother at Hereford 
 Station she was so ecstatic in her praise of Raven 
 Court that Ray felt that her descriptions must in- 
 deed be preludious of bliss to come. This was so 
 perfect a July that any place in the country must 
 be lovely. But nothing that he had figured or im- 
 agined approached even vaguely to the reality. As 
 soon as he saw the house, rose-coloured and dream- 
 ing in its wooded valley, he knew that here would 
 be taken another step in his romantic education. 
 
 They drove along a broad, shadowed road, which
 
 MIDSUMMER MADNESS 153 
 
 sloped gently down to the massive iron gates, curi- 
 ously wrought with ravens in black and twisted 
 iron. A sound of many birds arose from a lake 
 which stretched away on one side of the drive, and 
 as they passed through Ray looked over the water 
 and saw that it was bright with the flash of grey 
 and scarlet wings. There were birds everywhere. 
 Pink flamingos lifted slender legs from water-lilied 
 pools, where fountains of hyaline water splashed 
 deliciously over broad and moss-covered stones. 
 Plumed and pranked, peacocks stalked proudly 
 under the laughing fauns that decorated an Italian 
 garden. There were summer ducks and mandarin 
 ducks basking on the hot stones at the edge of the 
 lake, and in a great plane tree that stretched black 
 branches over the polished waters was a monaul, a 
 sort of pheasant of the Himalayas, shimmering with 
 burnished copper, sapphire, and purple. Close to 
 some steps that led to a sunken lawn were standing 
 two cranes, of the palest shade of grey. They 
 opened their wings and danced away as the car ap- 
 proached. 
 
 "What does it all mean?" he said to his mother, 
 when they got out of the car. 
 
 She smiled and explained. Lord Travers, from 
 whom she had rented the house, was a great col- 
 lector of rare birds, and one of his stipulations had 
 been that she should have them properly looked 
 after.
 
 i 5 4 PATCHWORK 
 
 "Of course it means dozens of men to feed them, 
 but they're so beautiful, and none of them 
 bite. . . ." 
 
 Ray laughed. He was feeling astonishingly 
 happy at the idea of spending the summer in so per- 
 fect a place. The inside of the house was no less 
 entrancing. Nowhere had the walls been defaced 
 with papers — instead one wandered through cor- 
 ridors of dove-coloured stone, under ceilings thick 
 with oak beams. One looked down long passages 
 at the end of which gleamed casement windows 
 through which the light shone in from the lake 
 outside and cast netted shadows on the ceiling, or 
 reflected itself in pools of silver light on the 
 planched floor. There were Italian rooms of green 
 and gold, and English rooms of blue and white, 
 and Chinese rooms hung with flashing embroideries 
 in which white-faced warriors waved satin swords, 
 and clouds of silken fire spumed from the mouths 
 of twisted dragons. Ray's bedroom was hung with 
 a Japanese embroidery across whose restless sur- 
 faces white doves flitted through mazes of thickly 
 clustering wisteria. 
 
 But the room which above all he found wonder- 
 ful was the banqueting hall, which was set aside 
 for his own particular use. The room was of im- 
 mense height, and its woodwork had not been dark- 
 ened in spite of its age, but had been made golden 
 with the passing of six centuries. Huge beams, in
 
 MIDSUMMER MADNESS 155 
 
 form resembling great girders, but slightly bent in 
 the middle, spanned the room from side to side. 
 From the centre of these, a fourfold clustered 
 springing of massive wooden arches arose, and lost 
 itself in the dusk of multitudinous limbs which 
 spread over the ceiling like the branches of an 
 ancient cedar. The banqueting hall occupied nearly 
 one entire side of the house, which was built in the 
 form of a quadrangle and reminded him at once of 
 a tiny Oxford College, or rather some such college 
 as Magdalene, Cambridge. In the centre of the 
 quadrangle were great stone bowls filled with sweet- 
 Johns of red and white, and there were many quaint 
 devices of carved brick. Even the gutter-pipes 
 were embossed and on rainy days the water de- 
 scended through the puffed-out cheeks of a grinning 
 satyr, or by means of the tail of a curving griffin. 
 
 It was many days before Ray learnt half the 
 loveliness of Raven Court. An eternity would 
 be too short for such a place as this. It was 
 particularly wonderful that he had it to share with 
 his mother, and together they would wander along 
 the flagged terraces, over the bridge with its stunted 
 Japanese trees in their square pots, and into the 
 sunken lawn which was always fringed with a riot 
 of roses, red as wine. Colour — never had he seen 
 such colour. There were roses everywhere in the 
 winding walks, and every description of old- 
 fashioned flower. Even the lake was made brilliant
 
 156 PATCHWORK 
 
 by the birds that ceaselessly troubled its waters. 
 African ducks, with feathers like burnished glass, 
 and strange geese with ringed necks. Flamingos 
 and storks, pink and white, cranes and peacocks, 
 grey and starry green. Here indeed was food for 
 dreams. Even the advent of Helen was not enough 
 to disturb this cloistered tranquillity. 
 
 They all went out to the terrace after dinner 
 on the night of her arrival. Lady Sheldon wore 
 a gown of silver lace which Ray had chosen from 
 forests of mannequins at Lucile's but Helen was 
 dressed in a short black frock, almost entirely 
 covered with sequins, that gleamed maliciously in 
 the twilight. She seemed, indeed, by far the most 
 vigorous of the three. 
 
 "Of course these birds are beautiful," she said, 
 and seated herself on a stone balustrade, "but . . ." 
 
 Lady Sheldon went to her. "My dear, don't 
 please sit on those stones. It's so dangerous." 
 
 "Why, are they loose?" 
 
 "No — at least I don't know. But you may get 
 a chill or some dreadful disease. I can't remember 
 what it is, but I know it's very painful." 
 
 Helen laughed, a short laugh which echoed 
 coldly. 
 
 "Oh, I'm all right. And anyway, if I'm not 
 it's my own fault. I was talking about the birds." 
 
 "What about them?" said Ray. 
 
 Helen looked at him. "Ray, you do look so
 
 MIDSUMMER MADNESS 157 
 
 absurdly childish with that cigar. It looks like 
 a cherub trying to be naughty." 
 
 Lady Sheldon stroked his hair. "He is a cherub, 
 and he's never naughty." 
 
 Ray smiled. "All of which is very charming 
 of both of you, but I want to know why Helen 
 'buts' my birds." 
 
 "Are they your birds?" 
 
 "Certainly. The birds of my heart." 
 
 "Sentimentalist." 
 
 "Thank the Lord— yes." 
 
 "Helen really loves them as much as you do, 
 Ray," said Lady Sheldon. 
 
 "I like to see them, yes. But I don't like 
 animals at all." 
 
 "Oh, Helen, how can you call that darling stork 
 an animal?" Lady Sheldon indicated a grey crane 
 which was peering at them from under the gloom 
 of a cedar tree. 
 
 "I mean the animal kingdom in general. Besides, 
 it isn't a stork, it's a crane." 
 
 "Whatever it is, it's quite lovely," said Ray. 
 "It's like Pavlova in the Swan dance." 
 
 "It isn't in the least like that, but it is beautiful, 
 I know, to look at. But inside it's probably full 
 of raging wickedness." She looked at Ray 
 mischievously. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "All animals are. They're perfectly beastly.
 
 158 PATCHWORK 
 
 It's merely because you don't know anything about 
 them that you think they're nice. It's typical of 
 your whole attitude to life." 
 
 "Helen, please don't talk about attitudes to 
 life," plaintively said Lady Sheldon. 
 
 "Very well, but it is. I like Ray so much in 
 spite of the fact that I'm his cousin, and that's 
 why I want him to understand. Take pigs, for 
 instance." 
 
 "I don't want to take pigs," returned Ray. 
 
 "Perhaps you don't, but you ought to. I was 
 staying at a farmhouse last summer . . ." 
 
 "I know all about that," interrupted Ray. 
 "You disorganised all the cows." 
 
 "Shut up. I was staying at a farmhouse, and 
 I learnt a good deal there about all sorts of animals." 
 
 "How very nasty of you ! " 
 
 "It wasn't. It was the animals who were nasty. 
 When a pig is ill all the others immediately rush at 
 it and try to tear it to pieces." 
 
 Ray stirred uneasily. "That's the survival of 
 the fittest." 
 
 "Well, it doesn't fit in very well with your 
 sentimental theory, does it?" 
 
 He was silent. 
 
 "It's the same with all animals. Cats. Ray 
 loves cats, and yet to see a cat with a mouse is 
 enough to make one lose one's faith in God. And
 
 MIDSUMMER MADNESS 159 
 
 they eat their own kittens. So do pigs — not that 
 pigs have kittens, but they eat them in any case. 
 They're all beastly. You see a wretched little 
 chicken with a lame leg, and all the others will 
 peck it to death. Even horrid things like frogs 
 kill each other. The young ones get on the 
 back of the old ones and slowly throttle them to 
 death. . . ." 
 
 "Helen, why do you want to talk about these 
 things?" 
 
 "Merely because it does you good. I hate 
 and detest animals. They're like men without 
 the restraining influences of our rapidly vanishing 
 civilisation." 
 
 There was silence for a few moments. That 
 is to say, they stopped talking, although there were 
 always cries of distant birds and the silver plash 
 of fountains. 
 
 "I do think animals might be nicer, certainly," 
 at last said Lady Sheldon. "I always wondered 
 why pigs were so ugly. If God made pigs — and 
 I suppose he did — I think he must have done it as 
 a joke. And I think it was rather a bad joke. It 
 would have been just as easy to cover them with 
 feathers and to have given them eyelashes." 
 They laughed. 
 
 "But wouldn't it? It would be just as easy 
 to make a pig with feathers as to make one with-
 
 160 PATCHWORK 
 
 out. As it is, pigs are really not quite nice. I 
 always feel they ought to be covered up." She 
 sighed. 
 
 "Mother, you're taking Helen's side." 
 
 "No, I'm not, because she's far too clever. But 
 I think there was something in what she said. . . ." 
 
 There was. That night the air was rent with 
 savage cries, and when they came down in the 
 morning it was to learn that the grey crane which 
 they had watched the night before had killed the 
 most beautiful of the white peacocks. The rose 
 garden was strewn with white feathers. 
 
 For some days Ray found his mental equilibrium 
 seriously disturbed, and he breathed a sigh of relief 
 when a week later Helen departed on a lightning 
 visit to New York. 
 
 The next visitor to Raven Court was far more 
 congenial. Ray, as soon as he had settled down, 
 determined that here was an ideal setting for some 
 of his Oxford friends, and he was delighted when 
 David promised to come. He had had some 
 misgivings about asking a friend he had known for 
 so short a time, but they quickly vanished when he 
 arrived. 
 
 Lady Sheldon at once fell in love with him, 
 especially when after dinner he danced a stately 
 waltz with her in the banqueting hall. "So good- 
 looking, Ray, and such a marvellous dancer."
 
 MIDSUMMER MADNESS 161 
 
 David indeed seemed to be always dancing. He 
 chased the cranes in order that he might imitate 
 their pretty walk and invented a cockatoo fox-trot 
 which he performed before the white cockatoos that 
 screamed shrilly in the Queen Anne parlour. 
 
 Together they explored the woods and bathed 
 in the slowly running river. Those were halcyon 
 days. David seemed to be the incarnation of 
 eternal youth. 
 
 "This is priceless, isn't it?" he said to Ray 
 towards the end of his visit. 
 
 Ray nodded. "It's principally priceless because 
 you're here," he said. 
 
 David laughed. "I don't suppose I shall ever 
 see much of you anywhere else." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Well, at Oxford you're always so infernally 
 busy, and surrounded by masses of clever people." 
 
 Ray frowned. He had almost forgotten Oxford 
 in these summer months. While he had worked in 
 London he had still managed to retain something 
 of the academic atmosphere, but here he had merely 
 drifted. Hardly any work had been done, even 
 his piano-playing had been neglected. But still, 
 he was not sorry that he had so spent his time. 
 His mind seemed to have acquired a richness which 
 previously it had lacked. It had been stored with 
 strange and glowing colours. Even David would 
 hardly understand how deeply he had been affected,
 
 1 62 PATCHWORK 
 
 and often he would make some excuse and wander 
 off alone to paddle a solitary canoe down the iris- 
 haunted river, or to explore the quaint old books 
 which he found in the Jacobean library. It was 
 delightful, too, to sit in the banqueting hall at night, 
 long after the rest of the house was asleep, to sit in 
 one of the huge chairs and allow those dreams to 
 come which were most beautiful. If he looked 
 out on one side he saw the courtyard which had 
 reminded him so strangely of a little Oxford 
 college. The moon would shine in and gild with 
 faint silver the flower-crowned cupids, and the scent 
 of lavender, which grew in thick bushes beneath 
 the window, drifted up and filled his brain with 
 ecstasy. And on the other side was the lake, 
 rippling now and again with tiny flashes of gold, 
 or streaked with a trail of luminous bubbles as some 
 bird swam across to the shadow of the cedars on the 
 far bank. There was a cedar just outside his bed- 
 room window, through which the moon shone 
 every night, and always in its branches was perched 
 a white peacock, its marvellous tail drifting down 
 from the black boughs, its delicate head outlined 
 against the great orange circle of the moon. 
 
 On the last Sunday they decided to go to 
 church. Ray had been against the idea, because 
 he imagined the service would be dreadful, and 
 that the harmonium would be out of tune. But 
 his mother had insisted, because she had been
 
 MIDSUMMER MADNESS 163 
 
 suddenly seized with qualms as to the example 
 she should set to those who were temporarily her 
 tenants. 
 
 "Shall I come too?" said David. 
 
 "Of course," Ray replied. "Only you mustn't 
 dance up the aisle." 
 
 One reached the church through fields of long 
 grass shot with the random scarlet of poppies. A 
 tiny church it was, of the same stone, rose and 
 dove-coloured, as Raven Court itself. Ray was 
 enchanted with the idea of a church in a field, and 
 still more enchanted when they reached the door 
 and smelt incense drifting out into the open air, 
 mingling deliciously with the sweetness of the 
 honeysuckle which clustered in great feathery bushes 
 outside the heavy doors. 
 
 "Lord Travers is very High Church, you see," 
 whispered his mother as they entered. 
 
 Ray felt that her comment was unnecessary. 
 The service was an exquisite mingling of naivete 
 and culture. The harmonium that swelled its 
 tiny bellows with Gregorian chants, the red-cheeked 
 ploughboys clad in lace and scarlet, swinging the 
 bronze censers, the little priest gorgeously capari- 
 soned in green and gold — there was an astonish- 
 ing charm about this scarcely concealed Romanism 
 springing up so unexpectedly in a country field. He 
 could not help thinking, as he sat down, that it was 
 like meeting the Pope in a wood.
 
 1 64 PATCHWORK 
 
 Why did a service of this nature always make 
 him feel so extraordinarily happy? After all, he 
 had been through all this phase before. Candles 
 and incense were part of everybody's romantic 
 education. And yet, here he was again, excited as 
 any schoolboy after his first taste of incense. 
 
 The wind was on the meadows when they came 
 away, and in the sky were great summer clouds, 
 white and feathery. 
 
 "I think," he said to David, "I must be getting 
 young again." 
 
 But he knew, with loveliness like this around 
 him, that there could never be such a thing as age.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 REACTION 
 
 RAY regretted intensely that it was necessary 
 for him to return to London before going to 
 Oxford. He felt it would have been far more 
 fitting to spend his last night at Raven Court by 
 himself, and then to have motored to Oxford through 
 the country — to have stepped from one dream to 
 another. The idea of London, even for a fortnight, 
 seemed incredibly harsh after so rich a sowing-time 
 of dreams, and when he finally said good-bye to the 
 old housekeeper he was as near tears as any well- 
 bred young man will ever admit. Everything 
 seemed so oblivious of his going — not a flamingo 
 that turned its pink head to bid him God-speed, 
 while the cranes were so disdainful that they refused 
 even to move out of the way of the car, and had to 
 be beaten off with sticks by an indignant chauffeur. 
 London was even worse than he expected. The 
 crowds were ten times larger after the solitude of 
 the country, and the streets seemed choked with 
 dirt. Even Curzon Street was dingy and colour- 
 less, and not all the roses that he could buy at 
 
 165
 
 1 66 PATCHWORK 
 
 Girard's could give his room anything of the 
 fragrance which he had left behind. 
 
 However, he soon found that in the excitement 
 of preparing for Oxford, Raven Court gradually 
 faded into the background, an exquisite mirage 
 which he would not readily disturb. A new term 
 at Oxford seemed to promise fresh fields and 
 pastures. He had wondered towards the end of 
 the long vacation whether he were marking time, 
 whether he really would be able to find new in- 
 terests, whether he had not already lived so fully 
 the Oxford life that the remainder of his career 
 there would be bathos. However, even a fortnight 
 in London had given him once more the zest of 
 living for the sake of life: he felt that it would be 
 terrible if he were to find that Oxford had no other 
 fruit to give him than that which he had already 
 tasted. 
 
 He remembered on the last day that by this 
 time Helen had come back from New York, and he 
 wanted to see what impressions America had made 
 upon her. Contrast was, after all, the essence of 
 most of Ray's enjoyments, and so he decided to go 
 round after tea. 
 
 Helen's flat in Clarges Street was quite trans- 
 formed. It was so full of harsh colours, so rich 
 in angles and triangles and cubes, that it gave the 
 impression of a vast patchwork quilt. The sitting- 
 room was papered in black, with a black carpet
 
 REACTION 167 
 
 and a blue ceiling, and there were black divans on 
 which huge striped cushions sprawled, cushions of 
 crimson and blue and gold, cut up into strips that 
 made them look like Neapolitan ices. A huge 
 and modern picture of New York at night had been 
 let into the wall over the blue mantelpiece, and 
 some Italian cubist pannels garishly grimaced on 
 either side of the tall windows. The dining-room 
 was in the same style, white, all white except the 
 yellow curtains, which flamed like sunlight, and 
 the cottage furniture painted with crude splashes 
 of yellow and black. Even the music-room, with 
 its gold walls and its shiny black piano, had been 
 given over to modernity. A Bolshevik composition 
 called "Gold Fish" lay on the music rest, its 
 cover portraying in orange semicircles what Ray 
 took to be the quintessence of piscatorial melody. 
 
 "Do you like it?" said Helen, after she had 
 shown Ray over. 
 
 "Not in the least, I am afraid." 
 
 "How horrid of you!" 
 
 Ray laughed and sat down at the piano. He 
 tried to play "Gold Fish," but gave up the attempt. 
 "I wish you hadn't gone to New York. I'm sure 
 that's the cause of all this." He indicated the 
 curious music on the piano and let his eyes rest for 
 a moment on some gilded poppy-pods which flaunted 
 their painted heads by his side. 
 
 "Of course it's the cause of it. And I'm damned
 
 1 68 PATCHWORK 
 
 glad it is." She spoke eagerly. How like a boy she 
 was, with her flushed face and her live black hair! 
 "You see . . ." She sat down on the music stool 
 which was quite big enough for three or four people. 
 
 "I see . . . that," said Ray, pointing to the 
 "Gold Fish." 
 
 "Oh, bother that thing!" She took it up and 
 threw it impatiently across the polished floor, where 
 it slid under a sofa. "That's nothing. It's the 
 whole attitude that matters." 
 
 "That's exactly what I was complaining of." 
 
 "Look here, Ray, why are you so impossibly out 
 of date?" 
 
 "Am I?" 
 
 "Yes, you are. At least you seem to be now 
 I've been to New York." 
 
 "Oh, well, every one in England does after that, 
 I suppose." 
 
 "No, not necessarily. Of course, they're all 
 slower, but that's not the point. You're exception- 
 ally bad. You simply live in the nineties, you — oh, 
 I don't know." She played some whole-tone chords 
 so loudly that Ray put on the soft pedal. She 
 stopped. "There — that's what you're always 
 doing!" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Putting on the soft pedal." 
 
 "Must you talk in symbols?" 
 
 "I'm not talking in symbols. I'm talking plain
 
 REACTION 169 
 
 English. It's perfectly clear. All that you do is 
 like that. I don't mean that you're soft yourself — 
 it would be an insult to say that after all you've gone 
 through. You're merely out of date. I saw that 
 as soon as I got to Oxford. You're simply living in 
 a different world to all the rest of the people there. 
 It was the same at Raven Court." 
 
 "Well, it's a pretty strenuous world sometimes, 
 at Oxford at any rate." 
 
 "I know. And that's why I think you ought 
 to know what you're about. By the way, d'you go 
 back to Oxford to-morrow?" 
 
 "I go up," corrected Ray. 
 
 "Up, then. Well, when / was in Oxford every- 
 thing was quite delightful of course, and you seemed 
 to know everybody and to be doing everything, well, 
 just as it used to be done before the war. Your 
 rooms might have been occupied by any aesthete in 
 the nineties. Your conversation was brilliant, but 
 it was simply a rechauffe of 'The Importance of 
 being Earnest.' " 
 
 "My dear Helen, I almost forget what Oxford 
 is like now, but don't you see that my whole life at 
 Oxford has been devoted to proving the importance 
 of being frivolous?" 
 
 "How do you mean?" 
 
 "I mean such an enormous lot that I can't 
 possibly say it all now. But I think you realised 
 pretty correctly what my attitude was, and I may as
 
 1 7 o PATCHWORK 
 
 well say that it was quite intentional. I want Ox- 
 ford to be what it was. I want people to be charm- 
 ing again and not to go about in standard suits and 
 look horribly earnest and put cubist paintings on 
 their walls and talk about the war. It's so damned 
 feeble. It's really putting on the loud pedal, which 
 is much worse than putting on the soft." 
 
 "Now you're talking in symbols yourself." 
 
 "Well, you started it. And anyway it illustrates 
 pretty well what I mean. If you wear futurist 
 jumpers and join the Labour Party and say that 
 Chopin is out of date, and that nobody's any good 
 but Stravinsky, and if you read 'Wheels,' and 
 adore Robert Smillie, and talk about skyscrapers, 
 it shows one thing quite clearly, and that is that 
 the war has deprived you of your mental balance." 
 
 "But don't you see that you ought to have been 
 deprived of your mental balance? You ought to be 
 mad. You can't ignore these things." 
 
 "Oh yes, I can." 
 
 "Well, if you do you merely become out of 
 date." 
 
 "Helen, you're really quite a clever girl and I 
 like you very much — no, please don't pinch my 
 knees — but you really don't know what you're 
 talking about." 
 
 "Perhaps I don't, but still. . . ." 
 
 "Wait a minute. What you don't understand 
 is that I'm doing this all quite deliberately, and for
 
 REACTION 171 
 
 absolutely altruistic motives. I'd do it to the whole 
 world if I could, and not merely to Oxford. I want 
 — I want so damnably to forget, and I want other 
 people to forget. It may be weak, but on the whole 
 I can't think it is. I think it's much weaker to give 
 in. If you rush about wildly and paint your rooms 
 all the colours of the rainbow, if you can't find any 
 pleasure in simple melodies or in amusing conversa- 
 tion, and if you scream at the top of your voice that 
 there's been a war and that you're not going to let 
 any one forget it, well, then, I think you're weak, 
 that's all. That's why I think the average Oxford 
 man to-day is weak. If he's an athlete he talks like 
 a sergeant-major, if he's a scholar he Pelmanises, if 
 he's an aesthete he buys 'Wheels' and jazz pictures. 
 That's the attitude I'm fighting and I'm doing it 
 pretty effectively. Everybody in Oxford knows me, 
 and I know everybody. That isn't so bad for two 
 terms. And after a year I believe I really shall be 
 able to make things better. It's all I want to do. 
 I only care about Oxford, I don't care a damn about 
 myself. . . ." 
 
 He paused. Helen got up and slid across the 
 floor. "All right. I give in." 
 
 "You don't really, you know." 
 
 "Yes, I do, for the moment." 
 
 "Well, prove it by putting that awful cushion 
 outside the door. And then I'll play your 
 character."
 
 1 72 PATCHWORK 
 
 "Will you? Here it goes, then." A flash of 
 green and the room seemed relieved of a discordant 
 note. 
 
 "I think I ought to start with a sort of fugue — 
 very straight and bare, and then put in a lot of 
 Debussy chords in the treble." He improvised as 
 he talked. Ray's improvisations on the characters 
 of his friends had been one of the favourite enter- 
 tainments of Oxford gatherings. He had made 
 many friends that way, and also a few enemies, as 
 when he played "Chu Chin Chow" to illustrate a 
 particularly aggressive Rugger blue, or a mixture 
 of "Rule, Britannia," "Home, Sweet Home," and 
 "Three Blind Mice" for the president of the con- 
 servative club. 
 
 Helen's was a fascinating character to play. 
 
 "You know," he said, still playing, "I'm not sure 
 whether what I said about being altruistic was really 
 true. I probably do all these things merely because 
 they amuse me, and bring me into the limelight. I 
 do like limelight . . . (there, that trill shows the 
 frivolous side of your nature) — limelight and 
 applause^ I should have been a pianist except 
 that one wouldn't be famous enough. I'm most 
 horribly ambitious really — (listen to this tune a 
 second, rather sentimental, but good I think) — and 
 I want to be a much bigger thing than a pianist. 
 Anyway I hope I shall — (this sort of chorale isn't 
 you a bit, but I like it) — I can dream, whatever
 
 REACTION 173 
 
 happens. Don't take away my dreams, don't take 
 away my dreams. . . ." 
 
 He forgot that he was playing Helen's character, 
 and started to make up a sentimental ballad. 
 
 "Don't take away my dreams, Leave me a little 
 love, Tumty turn tumty turn, Tumty turn skies 
 above." 
 
 He switched round. "How damned easy it is 
 to make up that sort of rot!" 
 
 "It may be for you. Anyway, I think I want 
 my green cushion after that." 
 
 "Well, then, I shall go." 
 
 "No, don't." 
 
 He looked at his watch. "Yes, I shall have to 
 in any case, or I shan't have time to dress." 
 
 As he went back to Curzon Street he felt full 
 of fierce life. Piccadilly was a coloured cauldron 
 of painted women and sharp-faced men. The 
 roar of busses and the hoarse braying of motor- 
 horns, the writhing pavements, the pungent drifts 
 of scent and petrol — there was something astonish- 
 ingly stimulating about them all. Why should he 
 go back to Curzon Street yet? He felt that 
 he could not stand its tranquillity and the soft 
 atmosphere of its thickly carpeted rooms. Helen 
 had certainly filled him with some of her own 
 modernity. The thought of Oxford on the morrow 
 seemed suddenly flat and dull. He sprang on a
 
 i 7 4 PATCHWORK 
 
 bus going east. He must at all costs get noise 
 and fresh air. 
 
 What wonderful things busses were! Here in 
 his front seat all London curved before him. He 
 felt immensely superior to those gibbering beings 
 that passed beneath. Where he was going he had 
 no idea — he did not particularly care. These 
 long rows of lighted windows, these stained and 
 blackened streets, were strangely impersonal. They 
 seemed merely to form a background for his own 
 figure. 
 
 Of course, what he had said to Helen had been 
 merely the expression of a mood. True, it was 
 the dominant mood in his personality, but it was a 
 mood none the less. What an egotist he was! He 
 closed his eyes and always he saw a picture of 
 himself. 
 
 First he saw himself marvellously dressed in 
 a cloak of green, spun with silver leaves and 
 decorated with peacocks' feathers, walking slowly 
 and with raised head down a vast hall, crowded 
 on each side with dwarfs and clowns. There 
 were thousands of them, with white faces and 
 fluttering hands, and they all moved their lips 
 and gesticulated as he passed. On and on he 
 walked, sometimes to the sound of music, some- 
 times to no sound but that of the rustling of his 
 own cloak, but always there were the dwarfs and 
 clowns, lined up by the wall or standing in little
 
 REACTION 175 
 
 groups together. And their eyes were on him. 
 
 Then suddenly the vision vanished and he saw 
 himself again, whirling over the heads of a huge 
 crowd of every description of man and woman. 
 Black-winged and plumed with scarlet he flew, 
 on and on till he left them behind and landed on 
 a bare mountain where he delivered a speech to 
 infinite spaces of blue. 
 
 He found a great amusement in these dreams. 
 The rhythm of the bus seemed to have an almost 
 sexual stimulation. It was like being abducted 
 by some great purring cat. And yet the cool 
 wind should have blown away such livid imagin- 
 ings at these. He wondered what his fellow 
 passengers were thinking. That great fat police- 
 man, with his pudding face and his hefty Rabe- 
 laisian figure, through what paradise of thought 
 was he making his sturdy way? The little clerk, 
 with his white cheeks and his bright black eyes, 
 had he ever lived as Ray had lived? And this 
 prostitute, with her cheeks aflame with artificial 
 fires, her hair of tinsel gold, and her mouth reddened 
 by the shame of many alien kisses — she yet seemed 
 to keep about her the subtle attraction of poisonous 
 things. For a moment he lived the lives of all 
 these people. With the policeman he trod silent 
 streets and watched the lamps pale in unearthly 
 dawns, with the clerk he sweated over great books 
 of twisting figures, and with the prostitute he
 
 i 7 6 PATCHWORK 
 
 entered strange houses and tasted with her the 
 humiliation of passions which she could not share. 
 
 Poor policeman, poor clerk, poor prostitute! 
 After all, life itself was nothing but a vast prosti- 
 tution, whether it was of the brain, or the heart, 
 or the body. Perhaps this woman, in spite of 
 her broken body, was yet beautiful in spirit. She 
 was probably a good deal better than he himself. 
 Amid all this sordidness he himself felt sordid, 
 so used had he become to taking the colour of 
 his surroundings. He wondered with an intense 
 interest what sort of life this woman really led. 
 He could well understand that it might at first 
 be vivid and attractive. Every evening to set out 
 from her stale-smelling rooms, to walk and walk, 
 smiling always, to find the night's lover and the 
 night's lust. The nights — yes, they would be 
 wonderful enough, but the mornings? Perhaps 
 not so terrible when she was still young — but when 
 she was growing old? When her cheeks were 
 raddled and her neck had lost its contours, so that 
 the powder merely made her look more desolate, 
 and the paint was like the paint on the face of 
 a clown? 
 
 The bus suddenly stopped with a jerk, and Ray 
 glanced over the side to see where he was. "Brick 
 Lane, E." The name seemed in some way appro- 
 priate. Should he get out? He rather wanted 
 to follow this woman, whose grotesque hat was
 
 REACTION 177 
 
 already disappearing down the stairs. He sprang 
 up and went after her. For a moment he thought 
 she had disappeared. Then he saw that she was 
 standing undecided in front of an eating shop in 
 which the lights blazed on rows of fly-blown food 
 behind the white-lettered glass. Forgetting his 
 self-consciousness he went up to her. 
 
 "I beg your pardon." 
 
 She turned and looked at him. For a moment 
 she seemed startled. Then she drew herself up 
 and twisted her cheeks into the professional smile. 
 
 "Fancy meeting you here!" Her voice might 
 once have been musical, but now it was only 
 pathetic. 
 
 "It is funny, isn't it?" said Ray. They both 
 laughed. Somehow Ray did not feel nearly as 
 embarrassed as he had imagined. "I wondered if 
 you'd care to dine with me?" 
 
 He looked at her anxiously. Whether she would 
 dine, and what she would think, and what other 
 people would think, he could not imagine. 
 
 "Thanks very much. It's very kind of you, 
 I'm sure. But you're only a kid, aren't you?" 
 
 Ray wondered if the question was prompted by 
 a care on her part for his moral well-being. 
 
 He smiled. "In any case I'm rather hungry, 
 and I should be awfully pleased if you'd dine." 
 
 She looked at him curiously. His flushed face 
 was certainly attractive, and his well-cut clothes
 
 i 7 8 PATCHWORK 
 
 seemed to indicate prosperity. She put her arm 
 through his. 
 
 "Very well, dearie, only don't say I led you 
 astray, will you?" 
 
 How thin and wasted sounded the "dearie" 
 and the laugh by which it was followed! Ray 
 wanted to explain that he had no intention of 
 being led astray, but he felt that she might think 
 him insulting. In any case he would be able to 
 slip away after dinner. They walked, almost 
 without speaking, while she described the restaurant 
 at which they might dine. It was not nearly so 
 bad as Ray had imagined, and its lights twinkling 
 from a dark side street were almost cheerful in 
 this wilderness of noisy trams and cheap shops. 
 
 "I don't often meet many of my friends here," 
 she said as they sat down. 
 
 "I suppose you don't," replied Ray. 
 
 "I'm still in the West End, you see." 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 The waiter came up. Ray ordered champagne 
 — he felt that any other drink would be out of 
 place in such a strange meal. The food, however, 
 was excellent. 
 
 "What's your name?" asked his companion, 
 over some cabbage soup. 
 
 He told her. "And yours?" 
 
 "Mine's Ailsa," she said. 
 
 "Ailsa what?"
 
 REACTION 179 
 
 "Oh, never mind. You won't be calling me 
 Miss anything, I dare say." She leered across the 
 table at him. Ray wished that she would smile 
 naturally. She was not bad looking — about thirty, 
 with fair hair and a pretty complexion, though 
 it was fading rapidly. Beneath her monstrous 
 feathered hat her face seemed of an almost elfin 
 smallness, and her figure had not yet lost a certain 
 slim attractiveness. 
 
 Under the influence of champagne her tongue 
 was loosed. She sighed. 
 
 "Well, I never thought I should come to this." 
 
 "Why did you?" He asked the question 
 simply. 
 
 She seemed to forget for a moment that she had 
 been bought, and told him quite naturally of her life. 
 She had apparently been a clergyman's daughter, 
 and at the beginning of the war had taken up work 
 as a W. A. A. C, at a camp at Neasden. Here she 
 had been seduced by the adjutant, who, after he had 
 gratified himself, abandoned her, and the rest had 
 been easy going. She told her tale with a strange 
 blend of naivete and coarseness. 
 
 "Fancy me telling you all this," she said, as she 
 gulped some champagne to refresh her after her 
 unwonted revelation. 
 
 "I think it was very nice of you to tell me," 
 said Ray. 
 
 He looked round the little dining-room and
 
 180 PATCHWORK 
 
 appreciated to the full the contrast between this and 
 the life he would be leading on the morrow. Never 
 had Oxford seemed more remote. Here everything 
 seemed as garish as the lamps of imitation alabaster 
 which cast their light mercilessly on the dirty table- 
 cloths. Here the tragedies of life were laid bare to 
 the bone. There was no background of grey and of 
 silver to veil them or to disguise their repulsiveness. 
 This hot little room with its yellow curtains and 
 its walls spattered with advertisements, its tables 
 decorated with aspidistras whose shiny leaves caught 
 the light from the little red-shaded lamps, seemed 
 the scene of far greater passions than ever Oxford 
 could provide. For a moment he experienced a 
 great revulsion against his own mode of existence. 
 He felt he had been superficial. He felt he had 
 been attempting the impossible in trying to lead 
 once again a life which had passed. What right had 
 he even to attempt to do so, when there were places 
 like this, and people like the woman opposite, who, 
 with bowed head and nervous hands, was waiting to 
 minister to his pleasure? 
 
 The whole room suddenly seemed to challenge 
 him. The walls revealed the blistering sores in 
 their plaster-work and the curtains blew out in the 
 draught from the open window and waved their 
 frayed borders, and aspidistras glinted malevolently 
 as if they took a pride in displaying to him their
 
 REACTION 181 
 
 desolate ugliness. Even the cruet appeared to take 
 on a symbolic hostility. The mustard in its cracked 
 glass was dry and foetid, like the passions of the 
 people who put it on their pjates. The vinegar was 
 old and bitter, like the tempers of those who had 
 sprinkled it on their meagre salads. And the salt 
 had lost its savour. 
 
 "You're a deep one, aren't you?" 
 
 He looked up. Ailsa was evidently trying to 
 get him into the mode for revelry. He suddenly 
 felt intensely sorry for her. He would have liked 
 to have told her to go and wash the paint from her 
 face, and drink a glass of hot milk, and go home to 
 bed, and sin no more. Not that she had been 
 sinning. He merely knew that she must be tired 
 and lonely and despised. How was he to get out 
 of this evening? She would probably be hurt if he 
 did not do what was expected of him, and the very 
 idea filled him with shame and repulsion. 
 
 He made some laughing reply, and paid the bill, 
 and then got up to go, with many bows and scrapes 
 from the waiter, propitiated by the unusual largeness 
 of the tip. In the door, he paused. 
 
 "Get a taxi, dearie, and I'll tell the man where 
 to go." 
 
 He glanced at her. "All right. Just a moment." 
 
 He went back through the swing doors and took 
 an envelope from a writing stand which stood in the
 
 1 82 PATCHWORK 
 
 hall. In it he placed a ten-pound note and 
 gummed the flap. Then he went outside again. 
 Ailsa was waiting for him. 
 
 "Found it, dearie?" she said anxiously. 
 
 Ray nodded. "You might hold this a minute, 
 will you? And I'll go and get a taxi." He pressed 
 the envelope into her hand and walked quickly 
 down the noisy street. 
 
 As soon as he had turned the corner he jumped 
 on a bus going to Piccadilly. He wondered how 
 long Ailsa would wait for him. He wondered if she 
 would run away as soon as she discovered what the 
 envelope contained, if she would be very angry or 
 very humiliated. He hoped she would be neither. 
 But he soon forgot about her in the pleasure of 
 thinking once more about himself. How wonderful 
 it was to be young and to be able to take so intense 
 a pleasure from what was, as he realised, a very 
 ordinary experience. If a casual little dinner like 
 this could be so exciting, what might he not experi- 
 ence when later he chose to live in the grand man- 
 ner? He saw himself presiding at Neronian feasts 
 and Bacchanalian orgies, he saw himself playing a 
 thousand parts, in a thousand different costumes. 
 He would have liked to dress in crimson and gold 
 and rush through London in endless revelry. 
 
 Curzon Street seemed very quiet and respectable 
 when he reached it, and Lady Sheldon greeted him 
 with a sad litle reproof for being so late.
 
 REACTION 183 
 
 "I'm so sorry, mother." He gave her a kiss. "I 
 met some people I knew." 
 
 He hated telling her a lie, even if it was an inno- 
 cent one. He drank some coffee which she had 
 kept for him and together they went up the dark 
 stairs. 
 
 That night he dreamt of Raven Court, dreamt 
 once again that the great crane had attacked the 
 white peacock, and that the rose-garden was strewn 
 with desolate feathers. . . .
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 HOSTILITY 
 
 OXFORD was almost intolerably unreal the 
 next day, and it was some time before Ray 
 could realise that he was in the university at all. 
 He seemed still to hear dimly the broken echo of 
 "Ailsa's" conversation, to visualise again the sordid- 
 ness of the dark streets he had explored the night 
 before. Surely this white city, with its happiness 
 and its chiming bells, was merely part of a dream 
 which would leave him, when he woke up, still on a 
 bus, going east? The contrast was made the more 
 poignant since he would no longer be living in Bal- 
 liol. It seemed that he must set about and make 
 an absolutely new start. 
 
 There were moments when Ray regretted in- 
 tensely that he was not returning to his Balliol 
 rooms. It was as though he were leaving behind 
 him a part of his personality, as though he were 
 cutting himself off from the intimate and precious 
 motherhood of the College itself. But with the ad- 
 vent of a new day the recollection of London faded 
 as much into the background as the coloured birds 
 
 184
 
 HOSTILITY 185 
 
 of Raven Court. Ray always lived for the mo- 
 ment, and he realised that he was really entering 
 far more deeply into Oxford than he had done be- 
 fore. His Balliol rooms, charming as they were, 
 might have been anywhere. There was nothing par- 
 ticularly characteristic about them of that atmos- 
 phere which above all things he desired to capture. 
 But it was very different at 95, The Broad. 
 
 95, The Broad, is one of the most famous lodg- 
 ing-houses in Oxford. Tall and irregular, its green- 
 shuttered windows blistered by the sun of many 
 summers, it faces the Sheldonian, with its back- 
 ground of clustering grey buildings. It was largely 
 because of its view that Ray had chosen this house. 
 His rooms were on the second floor, and two large 
 windows gave ample opportunity for wasting — if it 
 were wasting — a good deal of his time. If he leant 
 out he could see all down the Broad, to the Corn- 
 market with its eternal flow of traffic, Balliol a 
 lean Gothic mass on the right, Exeter solid and 
 square on the left. On the other side was the dark 
 entrance to Holywell, which always reminded him 
 of a cave, the tipsy lines of the Octagon bookshop, 
 and immediately in front the long row of stone 
 emperors' heads, guarding the approach to the 
 Sheldonian. 
 
 Ray grew exceedingly attached to these emperors. 
 There were thirteen of them, and when there was 
 any particular excitement in Oxford, such as on
 
 1 86 PATCHWORK 
 
 Armistice night or the Fifth of November, they 
 woke to a transitory and coloured life by the ap- 
 plication of splashes of red paint to the nose. And 
 on one celebrated occasion their glory was renewed 
 by a series of paper feathers which waved trium- 
 phantly in the wind which swept up Broad Street, 
 until eventually they were washed away by the 
 rain. Ray thought they looked more appealing in 
 the rain than at any other time. All the stone 
 buildings were darkened by the wet, and tears 
 seemed to run continually down the statues' cheeks. 
 But they were beautiful too in the snow, when each 
 of their heads was suddenly clothed with an abun- 
 dance of white, or in the early morning, when the 
 sun stained their stone beards and flushed their 
 faces to a faint radiance. 
 
 But apart from the view, he could do a great 
 deal more with these rooms than he had been able 
 to do at Balliol. At Balliol he had been forced to 
 compromise with modernity. Here he could ob- 
 tain exactly the effect that always he had desired. 
 His sitting-room was long and low, with an irregular 
 ceiling and dark oak panels. Ray had the ceiling 
 white-washed, and a thick green carpet was brought 
 in, and spread its comfortable length over nearly 
 the whole floor. He decided that he would have 
 very few pictures, and eventually chose some Hol- 
 bein etchings, and over the mantelpiece some Diirer 
 prints. He brought from Curzon Street three very
 
 HOSTILITY 187 
 
 beautiful plates of French china, peacock-green, 
 which were hung on the wall opposite the door; 
 and on the piano, which occupied the corner near- 
 est the window, he placed an old English bowl of 
 transparent green glass, which was always filled with 
 floating flowers. Ray had an inherent objection to 
 placing anything on the piano at all, but this bowl 
 looked so beautiful by the window, where it 
 sparkled or glowed or was dimmed by every light 
 or shadow from outside, that he could not resist the 
 temptation. 
 
 It was certainly an ideal room in which to play 
 the piano. In the morning, when Oxford was a 
 pattern of multitudinous roofs, woven into some 
 sort of unity by the sun, he would fill the room 
 with Bach, taking a delight in the eternal freshness 
 of his rhythm, trying to get every note and every 
 phrase as clear as the sunbeams which slanted in 
 through the open windows. Or at five o'clock, on 
 damp November evenings, he would play Couperin 
 and old French tunes, with their absurd stateliness 
 and their pleading little refrains, which seemed to 
 be ushered in so gracefully to this room of stain 
 and shadow. But in the evening there was nearly 
 always Chopin — brilliant Chopin for wild nights, 
 mazurkas, preludes, waltzes, and now and again a 
 nocturne, exquisitely played and seeming every time 
 to renew his love of living whrle there was yet 
 time.
 
 1 88 PATCHWORK 
 
 So enchanted was Ray with this room that for 
 the first two days of term he hardly ventured out 
 at all. However, on the Saturday afternoon he was 
 so besieged with visitors that he decided to go round 
 to see Tarn Edwardes, with whom he was dining on 
 the morrow. He felt suddenly and unaccountably 
 bored. Now that he had already done so much, he 
 wondered if there was much left to do, unless he 
 chose to concentrate on the Union, or endeavoured 
 to get a Blue, the first of which was boring, and the 
 second probably totally impossible. The his was 
 now in the pale but capable hands of Bagshot, The 
 Oxford Mercury was an established institution, he 
 had ensured his reputation as a pianist, the Star 
 Club was almost too successful, and an hour's work 
 a day seemed sufficient to pull him through his 
 exams. 
 
 Tarn was a remarkable youth. Endowed with a 
 great deal of money and a prepossessing appear- 
 ance, his lot had been cast in Pembroke, of which 
 college he was a scholar. He could not be said to 
 have any particular affection for his college, and was 
 far more at home with the denizens of Christ 
 Church and Balliol. He had chosen out Ray as 
 one of the indispensable celebrities without whom 
 his dinner-parties would be incomplete ; and Ray had 
 responded favourably to his advances because, apart 
 from the fact that he was a Blue (and Ray was at 
 that time "collecting" blues), he liked Tarn for
 
 HOSTILITY 189 
 
 himself. He liked him because he was witty, and 
 because he appreciated wit, and because he had a 
 great knowledge of the world which was conspicu- 
 ously absent in the average undergraduate. 
 
 "Well, Ray," said Tarn, the afternoqn before the 
 dinner-party, "they're massing their forces." 
 
 "Who are massing what forces against whom? 
 Is that grammatical? Anyway, what do you 
 mean?" 
 
 Tarn gave a little cynical laugh, which was one of 
 his chief attributes. He looked at Ray from under 
 his eyelashes — a remarkable feat, considering he 
 was much the taller of the two. 
 
 "Oh, Queen's and Magdalen, and Univ., and 
 funny places like that." 
 
 "Yes, but what are they doing?" 
 
 "Oh, they're just hating you, that's all." 
 
 Ray laughed. "Really? I don't think that's 
 very exciting." 
 
 "Blase child! It is rather exciting, though. 
 They're getting out a paper entirely about you in 
 a day or two." 
 
 Ray looked up from the cigarette he was light- 
 ing. "Good Lord! A paper? What on earth's 
 going to be in it?" 
 
 Tarn smiled again. "Oh, I don't know. A sort 
 of general exposure, I suppose." 
 
 "My dear Tarn, as if there was anything to ex- 
 pose."
 
 i 9 o PATCHWORK 
 
 Tarn shrugged his shoulders. "Perhaps not, but 
 you know what these creatures are." 
 
 Ray rather disconsolately sat down on the sofa. 
 
 "I shouldn't worry if I were you," said Tarn. 
 "After all, it's only jealousy." 
 
 "But I really don't see what they've got to be 
 jealous of." 
 
 "Oh, Ray!" Tarn looked at him. "Modesty 
 has its limits." 
 
 "So has jealousy, I imagine." 
 
 "Not this sort of jealousy. I had one of the 
 leaders of the conspiracy in here this morning. 
 Berry, of Queen's. He was simply ranting against 
 you. D'yau know him?" 
 
 "No — who is he?" 
 
 Tarn lay back on the sofa and put his feet on the 
 mantelpiece. 
 
 "He's rather an important person, as a matter 
 of fact. Pre-war, you know." 
 
 "Oh, one of the monoliths?" 
 
 Tarn nodded. "Quite. Fearfully monolithic. 
 He's a Blue, and he's at Queen's, and as he's in- 
 tensely religious he thinks you're shallow, and de- 
 cadent, and he dislikes your habit of wearing suede 
 shoes such as those rather charming ones you've 
 got on now. By the way, where d'you get them?" 
 
 "Never mind where I get them," returned 
 Ray. "Tell me something else about this Berry 
 person."
 
 HOSTILITY 191 
 
 "I don't know whether there's anything more to 
 tell. He's merely one of many." 
 
 "Tarn, if you go on like this, I shall leave Oxford 
 to-morrow and set up a hat shop in Jermyn Street." 
 
 He wondered how far Tarn was right. He had 
 been so busy, so self-centred in his career through 
 Oxford, that he had not had time to notice how 
 other people were regarding him. He had not real- 
 ised that the undergraduate is the most critical 
 audience in the world, and now he came to think 
 it over it seemed rather remarkable that, playing so 
 many parts as he had done, and playing them so 
 publicly, he had not incurred a great deal more 
 hostility than had actually been shown. 
 
 "May I meet this brute?" he said, looking up 
 from his reflections. 
 
 "Berry? I suppose I could manage it." 
 
 "Well, can't you ask him to dine to-morrow?" 
 
 "My dear Ray, I've already disorganised my 
 dinner once for you. . . ." 
 
 "Yes, but you might do it again. I'll do the 
 same for you. I do most awfully want to see what 
 he's like. What's so ridiculous about the whole 
 thing is that he's never met me. Nobody likes me 
 who hasn't met me, and nearly everybody does who 
 has. Sorry, but it's true. And you've got to ask 
 him." 
 
 "Very well. I'll see what I can do." 
 
 Ray went away from Tarn's rooms considerably
 
 1 92 PATCHWORK 
 
 looking forward to to-morrow's dinner. When the 
 time came he was not at all decided what part he 
 should play. Should he dress extremely conven- 
 tionally, and talk like a cadet? He cursed himself 
 for this idea as soon as it crossed his mind. Such 
 a course would mean capitulating to the enemy. 
 Besides, it would be a renunciation of all he con- 
 sidered most important. Apart from the fact that 
 he doubted whether, even if he tried, he would be 
 able to talk like a cadet, far less look like one, his 
 whole life at Oxford had, up to the present, been 
 a fight to get away from all these false convention- 
 alities, the mock censoriousness and the intolerance 
 which had sprung up in the wake of war. An un- 
 dergraduate — a real undergraduate — should be a 
 delightful, inconsequent, brilliant individual — not 
 a crabbed old man, as Berry and his associates ap- 
 peared to be. Style! When would these people 
 realise the importance of style? 
 
 And so he decided that he would exaggerate every 
 characteristic which he had already displayed. He 
 would show them that he, at any rate, wasn't going 
 to sit down like a lamb and be told what to do. 
 He therefore performed his toilet with particular 
 care. A soft shirt, a velvet dinner jacket, and a 
 white rose. He didn't care if he was debagged or 
 de-anythinged. After all, he would go down with 
 his bags flying. 
 
 Ray on his arrival at the Grid created something
 
 HOSTILITY 193 
 
 of a sensation. However, nobody at first showed 
 any signs of hostility. Nearly everybody at the 
 Grid liked him, and many an evening had he spent 
 there, in front of the fire, laying down the law on 
 art, on politics, or on life in general, to an amused 
 circle of acquaintances. 
 
 But as soon as he saw Tarn he realised that there 
 were rocks ahead. Tarn was talking to a tall 
 young man with a well-made body in a badly made 
 dinner jacket. That must be Berry. He would 
 have been rather good-looking if his eyes had not 
 been so small and his face had not been stamped 
 with that indescribable expression of intolerance 
 which seems to overtake nonconformist clergymen 
 in middle age. 
 
 Ray swept up in his best manner. "Good even- 
 ing, Tarn. I'm so sorry to be late." 
 
 Tarn had a great deal of difficulty to prevent 
 himself laughing when he saw Ray's carefully cal- 
 culated appearance, and its effect on Berry. 
 
 "That's all right," he said. "What'll you drink?" 
 
 "Oh, a sherry and bitters, thanks." He felt that 
 in order to make the impression complete, he ought 
 to have ordered a creme de menthe. Tarn ordered 
 it. 
 
 "I forget if you know Berry of Queen's? Mr. 
 Raymond Sheldon, Balliol." 
 
 Ray bowed distantly. He was not yet sure 
 whether to be charming or offensive.
 
 i 9 4 PATCHWORK 
 
 They went up to dinner. Tarn had ordered a 
 private room, as there were now eight of them. 
 Tarn, Ray, Berry, Tom Booth of Magdalen, Steele, 
 who had been ordered by Ray to subdue himself, 
 Arden the composer of comic songs, Marvin, an- 
 other Blue and a staunch supporter of Ray, and 
 Tommy Quill, who never went to a dinner-party 
 with any other desire than to dine. 
 
 Ray felt that, above all, he must sparkle to- 
 night. He had been placed next to Berry. How- 
 ever, it was not till the entree had been disposed of, 
 that he managed to draw Berry's fire. 
 
 "I thought Waring was going to be here to- 
 night?" said Berry to Tarn. 
 
 "No, he couldn't come." 
 
 "Oh, I'm so glad," said Ray. 
 
 "And why?" interrupted Berry. 
 
 Ray smiled at him. "Because he either doesn't 
 talk at all, which is dreadful, or tells one all the 
 stories which I have at last been able to stop Steele 
 telling, which is worse. There's that story of the 
 white mice which he was supposed to put in Steele's 
 bed. . . ." 
 
 Steele roared with laughter. "Oh Lord, the 
 white mice." 
 
 "What was it?" asked Berry. 
 
 "Whatever else it was," interrupted Ray, "it was 
 most indelicate." 
 
 "Why?"
 
 HOSTILITY 195 
 
 "Because there's always one more mouse every 
 time the story is told. I had no idea that insects 
 increased so rapidly." 
 
 "Mice don't happen to be insects, to my knowl- 
 edge." Berry looked round the table with a 
 superior smile. 
 
 Ray sipped some champagne. "The genus seems 
 to me immaterial. At any rate, they aren't things 
 one discusses in polite society." 
 
 The duel now resolved itself into one between 
 Ray and Berry alone. 
 
 "Oh, I suppose, then, you've moved in different 
 circles to the rest of us?" 
 
 "I never move in circles at all," replied Ray 
 placidly. "I always go straight on." 
 
 "I forgot you were a genius," sneered Berry. 
 
 "I know; it was very careless of you." 
 
 Tarn interrupted the conversation, which looked 
 as if it might rapidly resolve into a free fight. 
 
 "Been making any more speeches on divorce 
 lately?" he said to Berry. He hoped his question 
 might give Ray a hint to be quiet, but it had pre- 
 cisely the opposite effect. 
 
 "Divorce?" asked Ray innocently. 
 
 "One or two," replied Berry pompously, disre- 
 garding Ray's interruption. As a staunch Chris- 
 tian he regarded marriage as eternally binding under 
 any conditions. 
 
 "Don't you believe in divorce?" Ray looked at
 
 196 PATCHWORK 
 
 him with the air of a schoolboy asking a master 
 the answer to a geometrical problem. 
 
 "No, I do not." Berry leant back and gazed 
 at the ceiling, as though his answer closed the 
 question. 
 
 "I do," said Ray, ignoring Tarn's signal to be 
 quiet. 
 
 "Oh, you're a disciple of free love, I suppose?" 
 
 "Certainly not. Free love is far too expensive." 
 
 Tarn could not help laughing, and everybody ex- 
 cept Berry giggled hopelessly. 
 
 "The reason I believe in easier divorce," added 
 Ray, "is because I don't believe in state control of 
 emotion." 
 
 Berry looked at him with a superior smile. 
 "Does that mean anything?" 
 
 "What? The state control or the emotion?" 
 
 Berry did not reply. Ray began to be seriously 
 annoyed. He leant forward, and the atmosphere 
 grew tense. He knew very little about divorce, but 
 he was determined to teach this man a lesson. 
 
 "Look here," he said. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Supposing, in a moment of aberration, you mar- 
 ried a wife. . . ." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "And that six months after you married her she 
 took to drink. . . ."
 
 HOSTILITY 197 
 
 Everybody roared with laughter. For twopence 
 Berry would have tried to knock Ray down, but he 
 saw that the laugh was against him, and he man- 
 aged to put on a feeble smile. 
 
 "Well?" he said again. 
 
 "Do you realise that you would be unable to 
 divorce her?" 
 
 "Most certainly." 
 
 "And yet you don't believe in divorce: for 
 drunkenness, for instance?" 
 
 "Certainly not." 
 
 "Do tell me why." Ray leant back in his chair. 
 He was beginning thoroughly to enjoy himself, and 
 so was the rest of the table. Tarn gave up all 
 hope of conciliation, and merely told the waiter to 
 shut the window and to bring coffee and cigars. 
 During this procedure the discussion for a moment 
 lapsed, and Ray looked round the table to gain en- 
 couragement. Steele winked at him, Tarn shook 
 his head, Tommy Quill waved his wineglass, and the 
 rest merely giggled. 
 
 Berry, too, was on his mettle. Divorce was his 
 favourite subject. Ray was his pet antipathy. 
 He was not going to miss such an opportunity. 
 
 He lit his cigar and started to smoke it with the 
 band on. 
 
 "Is it possible for you to be serious for two 
 minutes?" he said.
 
 198 PATCHWORK 
 
 "Much longer than that." 
 
 "Oh." He paused. "Then may I ask you if 
 you believe in the Bible?" 
 
 "What do you mean by 'believe in the Bible'? 
 I believe that the Bible exists, if that's what you 
 mean." 
 
 "I do not. Do you believe in the teachings of 
 the Bible?" 
 
 "Oh, some of them. I don't think, for instance, 
 that I shall go to hell if I call my brother a fool, 
 partly because I haven't got a brother, and partly 
 because. . . ." 
 
 "Do you believe in the teaching of the Bible as 
 regards divorce?" boomed Berry. 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 Berry turned round triumphantly. "I really 
 can't argue with a chap who doesn't know what he's 
 talking about." 
 
 "/ wasn't talking about the Bible," said Ray. 
 
 Berry scowled. "The teaching of the Bible with 
 regard to divorce is that 'those whom God hath 
 joined let no man put asunder.' " 
 
 "What a delightful sentence!" 
 
 Berry snorted. 
 
 "But what on earth it's got to do with divorce I 
 don't know. Suppose you married, and two days 
 afterwards your wife, who previous to marriage had 
 shown no signs of any but a healthy mind in a 
 healthy body, became totally insane. . . ."
 
 HOSTILITY 199 
 
 The table was a pandemonium of hysterical 
 laughter. Ray had to shout to make himself heard. 
 Steele battered the table with his fists. Tommy 
 Quill took the opportunity of making great inroads 
 on the port. It was some moments before order 
 was restored. 
 
 "Ray, for God's sake, talk about something else," 
 said Tarn. 
 
 "Very well. But I didn't start this divorce busi- 
 ness." 
 
 Tommy Quill, well primed with port, threw his 
 frail weight into the breach. 
 
 "Does everybody know I've got a new volume of 
 poems coming out in two days?" he fluted. 
 
 "What are they called?" 
 
 " 'Fauns and Flutes.' " 
 
 "Oh, Tommy, how prolific you are!" said Ray. 
 "Are they fearfully morbid?" 
 
 "No; marvellously energetic and dynamic." 
 
 "I'm so glad. I hate whining poems. In the 
 opinion of some people, genius to-day is simply an 
 infinity capacity for having pains." 
 
 Tommy smiled languidly. "I shall remember 
 that. It applies so delightfully to 'Wheels.' " 
 
 "Yes, doesn't it?" Steele now joined in. He 
 hated "Wheels," and leant forward eagerly. "Did 
 you see what The Pall Mall Gazette said about 
 'Wheels'?" 
 
 "No."
 
 200 PATCHWORK 
 
 " 'Conceived in morbid eccentricity and executed 
 in fierte, factitious gloom.' " 
 
 "Are you talking about Charles I?" The re- 
 mark, needless to say, came from Ray. 
 
 "What on earth do you mean?" 
 
 "Well, I imagine he was conceived in morbid ec- 
 centricity, and he was certainly executed in fierce, 
 factitious gloom." 
 
 "Ray, you are becoming intolerably decadent." 
 
 "My dear Tommy, from you!" Ray suddenly 
 became comparatively earnest. This word "de- 
 cadent" was one which was used a great deal too 
 much. Berry and his associates had applied it to 
 him. It was time he showed them that if he was 
 a decadent he was any rate an energetic one. 
 
 "What is a decadent?" he leant forward, and 
 from the eagerness of his expression, his flushed 
 cheeks, his general appearance of vitality, he cer- 
 tainly did not look at all decadent himself. 
 
 "My dear Ray, I never define." 
 
 "No, and it's about time you did. I'm sick of 
 all this talk about decadence from people who 
 simply don't know what they're talking about." 
 He glanced at Berry. 
 
 "It is rather an important thing, you know, isn't 
 it?" agreed Tommy. 
 
 "It certainly is. You're called a decadent if 
 your wallpaper is brown, or if it's green or blue or 
 any other colour under the sun. You're called a
 
 HOSTILITY 201 
 
 decadent if you wear flowers, instead of treading on 
 them, or if you happen to have on a decently fitting 
 coat, or if you wear coloured shirts. Good Lord, 
 Oxford ought to be a place where you can wear any 
 damned thing you like and do any damned thing 
 you like too. Some people seem to imagine we're 
 still in the army. It makes me sick." He gulped 
 some port indignantly. 
 
 "And decadence?" delicately suggested Quill. 
 
 Ray laughed. "Oh, decadence is simply un- 
 necessary distortion." 
 
 "How do you mean?" 
 
 "Well, of course you can't prove definitions like 
 that, but still . . . when sincerity flies out of the 
 door, decadence come in at the window. Take the 
 case of Beardsley. I love Beardsley, but he is ap- 
 pallingly decadent. As soon as an artist like Beards- 
 ley starts, out of mere perversion, to trace strange 
 designs over the chest of Salome, I feel that his 
 art is degenerating into mere cleverness, that he is 
 distorting without sincerity — and consequently that 
 he's decadent." 
 
 Tommy in his turn leant forward. "But when 
 you say distortion," he quavered, "I don't know 
 quite what you mean. In art, for instance?" 
 
 "Well, I don't think it's the degree of distortion 
 that matters — it's just the way it's done. I 
 wouldn't say, for example, that you could draw a 
 woman six feet high, but that it's decadent to draw
 
 202 PATCHWORK 
 
 one ten feet high. And I wouldn't say, either, 
 that you can draw a man with one nose, but must 
 never give him two." 
 
 Berry guffawed loudly. "Two noses — Good 
 God!" He blushed at his sudden involuntary in- 
 vocation of the deity. 
 
 "Certainly," said Ray placidly. " 'Good God,' 
 as you say. If God gives you one nose, I imagine 
 that He can also give you two. Let those noses 
 which God has joined not be put asunder, or what- 
 ever that delightful sentence was that you quoted," 
 he added maliciously. "But seriously — a nose 
 shouldn't be, to the artist — to the artist, mind you 
 — any more than a line, coloured bright or plain ac- 
 cording to taste. If you object to an extra nose, 
 then on the same principle you must object to a 
 hump, which means that you must dislike Velas- 
 quez, whom I have never yet heard called decadent. 
 Don't you see what I mean?" 
 
 "Do you see what you mean yourself?" said 
 Berry contemptuously. 
 
 "Not quite," returned Ray, smiling, "but I look 
 forward to that pleasure in years to come. In any 
 case, I'm sure the hump argument is good." 
 
 "But I don't see what it's got to do with two 
 noses," returned Quill. He pronounced the word 
 "nosers." 
 
 "I should have thought the connection was ob-
 
 HOSTILITY 203 
 
 vious. After all, a hump is merely an extra nose 
 in the back, and the fact that it's on the wrong 
 side seems to me to increase the perversity, if you 
 like to call it such, of the wearer." 
 
 "Ray, you're hopeless," said Tam. 
 
 "That's the last adjective which anybody should 
 apply to me," he returned. "I've got hope of 
 everybody" — again he glanced at Berry. "I'm 
 merely trying to be serious, by request. The basis 
 of the whole thing, of course, is rhythm. Take 
 music. Rhythm adapts itself, or should adapt it- 
 self, to the temper of the artist as he creates, and 
 whatever that temper or mood may be, it's for the 
 artist to find the rhythm which fits. As soon as he 
 fails to find it, as soon as he becomes just mechan- 
 ical, insincere, distorted — what you like — well, he 
 becomes decadent. Suppose his mood — it's a bloody 
 word, but it's useful — is one of passionate rage 
 (like mine at this moment)," he added tranquilly. 
 "The decadent musician, and especially the mod- 
 ern decadent, would go to the piano, think of the 
 word rage, put on the loud pedal, and produce 
 something which was harsh and broken, photo- 
 graphically angry, if you like, but not art. Com- 
 pare that with Chopin — the Revolutionary Etude, 
 for instance. Here, he was simply passionately in- 
 dignant, and the indignation that he felt surged 
 into something definitely rhythmical, and he wrote
 
 2o 4 PATCHWORK 
 
 a prelude which is terrifyingly realistic, and yet 
 which you can play in absolute three-four time, 
 with a metronome. . . ." 
 
 He expanded the idea, and talked with a fascina- 
 tion and brilliance which he could only achieve 
 when he knew that there was an element of hostil- 
 ity in his audience. He felt the eyes of Berry 
 fixed on him in stultified indignation, and they 
 spurred him on to still greater efforts. He became 
 flamboyant, exaggerated, daring. He showed off. 
 He had a very wide knowledge of his subject — and 
 it was a vast enough subject too. Ray, as he talked, 
 seemed to see in the distance the ruins of Greece, 
 looming across great vistas scattered with the bones 
 of those who at various times in history had fought 
 over the relations of art and truth, art and morality, 
 art and life. And nearer, the ground on which he 
 stood seemed to be covered wtih the footprints of 
 thousands, so that it was hard to pick out a clear 
 track for himself. There was Ruskin — clear, heavy 
 footprints, going along straight and ponderous, and 
 ending in a swamp. There was Croce, who had 
 smaller feet, that left more delicate impressions, and 
 reached as far as the eye could see. There was 
 Max Nordau, who drew one foot after another, 
 raising a lot of sand, and finally sinking into the 
 earth. There was Tolstoy, who turned in his feet, 
 and at last vanished in a cloud of virtuous indig- 
 nation; there was Marinetti, who crawled on his
 
 HOSTILITY 205 
 
 stomach. What an endless procession! They all 
 seemed to walk before him, and he drew from 
 them for a moment illustrations of what he meant, 
 and then they faded away and were forgotten. It 
 was a wonderful improvisation. 
 
 When he finished, there was a pause. Berry 
 broke it, by getting up. 
 
 "Good-bye, Edwardes," he said to Tarn. "And 
 thank you for a very entertaining evening." 
 
 "Good-bye." 
 
 Berry went out of the room in silence. As soon 
 as he had gone, everybody began to laugh. 
 
 "Damn you, Ray," said Tarn. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Berry looked absolutely murderous." 
 
 "I don't care. And anyway, if he wants to 
 murder any one, he'll murder me, not you." 
 
 "You were rather priceless, you know." 
 
 Ray laughed. "He's such an insufferable fool, 
 I really couldn't resist pulling his leg." 
 
 The conversation languished. Ray suddenly 
 felt very tired. He wondered what Berry would 
 put in this paper he was bringing out. Some- 
 thing quite appalling, probably. Still, it wasn't his 
 fault. He had meant what he had said, or most 
 of it — and in any case it had been a wonderful 
 dinner. 
 
 He thanked Tarn effusively as they said good- 
 night. "It really was marvellous," he said.
 
 2o6 PATCHWORK 
 
 "You were, you mean," laughed Tarn. 
 
 "Oh, well, it's the same thing." 
 
 When he got back to his rooms he felt an 
 overwhelming desire for fresh, clean things — a 
 positive revulsion against anything even vaguely 
 savouring of preciousness. 
 
 He opened the windows wide, and threw out 
 the white rose into the dark street. It had served 
 its purpose. Then he tore off his clothes, had a 
 bath, and practised Bach till Mrs. Griffiths came 
 in with a candle, fluttering and indignant, and told 
 him that he would wake the whole house.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 BENEDICITE 
 
 TAM had been right. Two days later the 
 paper appeared. It was called The Babe, 
 and while it was intended to be a skit on Oxford 
 celebrities in general, it devoted by far the greater 
 part of its space to Ray. It started with a review 
 of an imaginary book, entitled "How we discovered 
 Oxford," by Messrs. Shame and Reldon — a rather 
 clumsy transposition of "Raymond Sheldon." It 
 then went on to "Specimens of Oxford Oratory": 
 
 "They think in vicious circles, but we think in 
 cubes." — Mr. Raymond Sheldon. 
 
 "There is nothing so essentially feminine as 
 woman." — Mr. R. F. Whitely. 
 
 "We have lived too long in the red glare of war. 
 
 Let us paper the Union in Blue." Mr. Tommy 
 Quill in his latest book of verse. 
 
 "I declare this club open." — Mr. R. F. Berry. 
 
 The whole of page three was occupied by a 
 malicious cartoon of Ray, with a turned-up nose and 
 a made-up bow, playing the piano in Balliol Hall to 
 an adoring crowd of women students and coal-black 
 negroes. Pages four and five gave him a brief 
 
 207
 
 208 PATCHWORK 
 
 respite, but page six was entitled "Aphorisms by the 
 brightest particular Ray in the Star Club," and was 
 a feeble attempt to reproduce some of his epigrams. 
 Ray noticed with amusement that three of them had 
 reference to divorce. 
 
 He strolled into J. C. R. on the morning of the 
 paper's appearance, and was greeted with a 
 boisterous welcome. 
 
 "Fame at last, Ray," said Arden. 
 
 "Thanks. I'd rather you didn't slap me on 
 the back. And if this is fame I'd prefer to have the 
 other thing." 
 
 "Oh no, you wouldn't. You know you really 
 like it." 
 
 Ray laughed. He certainly did not particularly 
 mind it at present. It was foolish, but it was rather 
 amusing. 
 
 However, when three days later another paper 
 came out on the game lines, entitled The Moon, and 
 when this was followed a week after by "The Son — 
 the only paper in Oxford which is not edited by 
 Mr. Raymond Sheldon," he began to feel that 
 things had gone a little too far. 
 
 "Who's doing all this?" he asked Steele. 
 
 Steele shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, idiots like 
 Berry of Queen's and Waring of Magdalen. It's 
 only jealousy; I shouldn't take any notice of it if 
 I were you." 
 
 "That's all very well, but when you're offered
 
 BENEDICITE 209 
 
 biographies of yourself at every street corner it's 
 rather hard not to take any notice." 
 
 He flung The Moon into the waste-paper basket, 
 and went to the window. It was so glorious a 
 morning, with all the roofs so dazzling in the frost, 
 that it seemed absurd to worry about a little hostility 
 like this. But he was principally worried because 
 he conceived the attacks as delivered not on himself 
 but on the attitude which he had consistently 
 adopted, the attitude of Oxford before the war. 
 And if the fact that he had endeavoured to recapture 
 this pose was to be the cause of so much discussion, 
 if he was to be criticised for everything he did as 
 if he were a public schoolboy, it was about time to 
 despair of Oxford and everything for which Oxford 
 seemed to stand. 
 
 "You see," he said, "the wretched thing about 
 all these papers is that they're anonymous." 
 
 "Well, why don't you publish one yourself in 
 reply?" 
 
 Ray looked at him indignantly. "I should have 
 thought you knew me better than to suggest that 
 sort of thing." 
 
 Steele flushed. "How do you mean?" 
 
 "Well — really — I mean, it isn't a particularly 
 noble thing to do, as far as I can see, to publish a 
 lot of piffle about people you've probably never 
 met, and then to be afraid of putting your name to 
 it. I've never written anything I haven't signed."
 
 210 PATCHWORK 
 
 He stared out of the window, and whistled. 
 He had intended to play the piano that morning, 
 but somehow he did not feel able to do anything. 
 "I don't really care, though. I shall go on as I 
 have done." 
 
 Steele stood up and then stood down again. 
 He took the cushion from his armchair and then 
 put it back; he poked the fire, lit a cigarette, 
 threw it away, lit a pipe, let it go out, and said, 
 "Why?" 
 
 Ray turned round. "Why what?" 
 
 "Why do you want to go on doing all these 
 things?" 
 
 Ray looked at him in astonishment. "Well, 
 you've not exactly discouraged me yourself up to the 
 present." 
 
 "No, I know, and I'm beginning to wonder if I 
 ought to have done. I suppose it was all right to 
 do the papers, and I feel the Star Club was a good 
 move, but then — you've done so much else besides. 
 You've played the paino, you've founded all sorts 
 of weird societies, you're always out to every meal, 
 you seem to know everybody and everything in the 
 place, you — oh, I don't know, but hadn't you better 
 chuck some of it? I know you don't do The I sis 
 any more, and the Mercury's no bother, but then — 
 anyway you never seem to rest. You live about 
 ten lives at once. . . ." 
 
 "And I wish I could live ten thousand," Ray
 
 BENEDICITE 211 
 
 burst out. "Oh, I know it's probably wrong and 
 idiotic, but I can't help it. I like living and I like 
 life. I suppose that nowadays it's the fashion to 
 dislike life, but I don't, I frankly like it, in the 
 most blatant, vulgar way. I like seeing people. I 
 like watching their faces — seeing them crinkle up 
 like paper when I make them laugh, seeing them 
 grow weighty and heavy when I say something 
 clever. I like watching a whole lot of people sitting 
 round the fire, and talking, just talking. I love 
 talk. Everything that any one says is a challenge, 
 it's an adventure. It's like being thrown a rope, and 
 catching hold of the end, and then swinging on it — 
 God knows where — but I like swinging. I like 
 answering people. I like saying something better 
 than they do, because I'm conceited, and I like being 
 conceited." 
 
 He went to the fireplace and played with the 
 things on the mantelpiece. 
 
 "I like being alive and feeling all sorts of 
 queer beatings and excitements inside. I like my 
 own body. I like it because it's healthy and 
 muscular, I like my hands because they're clever 
 and clean, I like my arms and my legs and my 
 absurd head. I like them all because they're funny, 
 and sad, and — oh, I don't know, I like them. And 
 I like giving them a good time. I like to let them 
 run about in fields and get the fresh air. I like 
 going red in the face with running, and I like aching
 
 212 PATCHWORK 
 
 all over after a day's exercise. I love feeling 
 healthy. It's exciting just to breathe when you're 
 young and healthy. . . . And I like things, just 
 things. I like to see straight trees and big fat hills. 
 I want to climb up the trees and sing, and kick the 
 hills over and shout. I want to slide down valleys 
 and jump in rivers, and bite things. I like feeling 
 things, because the senses are beautiful things, and 
 if you use them properly it's all right. I like 
 smelling flowers, and I like picking them and 
 breaking their stems and squashing them together. 
 I like rushing about and seeing and hearing, 
 and singing, and being frightened, and being 
 glad. . . . 
 
 "And I like myself." He paused for a moment, 
 and laughed. "I really have an extraordinary affec- 
 tion for myself. I like myself because, when I look 
 right inside, what I see is good. It's good — quite 
 frankly. Inside — right inside — I'm an extraor- 
 dinarily nice person, because I'm kind, and I'm not 
 dishonest, because I believe in God and because I'm 
 capable of very great love. When I say love, I 
 mean all sorts of love. I love just as any other 
 animal does, and just as any man or woman on 
 earth does, if he's honest with himself. I like 
 kissing, and I like, occasionally, wild indecency. 
 You needn't looked shocked. You do yourself. If 
 you don't there's something wrong with you. I 
 haven't got a dirty mind, but there's mud in it. If
 
 BENEDICITE 213 
 
 there wasn't there'd be no flowers. I like dirty 
 jokes, now and then. Everybody does at the right 
 time. And I like loving people in other ways. 
 Non-physical ways I mean. I don't say they're 
 better. They probably are, because they're in- 
 finitely more lasting. They're just different, that's 
 all. . . ." 
 
 He looked up for a moment, caught his reflec- 
 tion in the glass, and laughed. 
 
 "Oh Lord, isn't it funny? We praise Thee, 
 O Lord! I like you, Steele, and I like lots of other 
 people. I like their noses and their chins, and 
 their teeth and their hair. I like niggers and China- 
 men, and lunatics and prostitutes. I like brown 
 things and red things, and green things and puce 
 things. In fact, I'm damned hearty. What shall 
 we do?" 
 
 He pulled Steele out of the chair and stuck a 
 cigar arbitrarily between his lips. 
 
 "I think you'd better go and have a cold bath." 
 
 "Brilliant idea. I will." 
 
 "No, don't be a fool. Come here a minute." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "You've got a smut on your nose." 
 
 "Hooray! I like smuts, and I like noses. I 
 like . . ." 
 
 "If you go on liking I shall run away." 
 
 Ray sighed. "All right, I'll be good. Let's 
 both have a vast whiskey and soda."
 
 2i 4 PATCHWORK 
 
 "It's only half-past eleven." 
 
 "Never mind. Say when." He poured out 
 the whiskey from a heavy decanter on the dark side- 
 board. 
 
 "When. Thanks. Here's your absurd health." 
 
 They sat down again. 
 
 "Look here/' said Steele, "why don't you put 
 yourself above all these papers and things by getting 
 a recognised position?" 
 
 "How do you mean? Besides, I have got a 
 recognised position." 
 
 "No, you haven't. Everybody knows you're 
 clever enough, and all that sort of thing. . . ." 
 
 Ray bowed. 
 
 "No, do be quiet a minute. You're well enough 
 known, I realise that, but you ought to get some- 
 thing more stable." 
 
 "More stable?" 
 
 "Yes — for instance, why don't you become 
 President of the Union?" 
 
 "You say it as though you were asking me why 
 I don't have another whiskey and soda." 
 
 "Well, they'd both be equally easy for you." 
 
 "Oh no, they wouldn't." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Because there's no more soda in the syphon." 
 
 "That's the spirit." 
 
 "No — I didn't mean that. I was being obscure.
 
 BENEDICITE 215 
 
 I meant there's no more soda in my syphon. 
 There's no more sparkle left in me." 
 
 "Rot." 
 
 "Perhaps you're right. But I don't want to be 
 tied down. If I work for the Union I ought to 
 lead a tedious sort of existence, and wear Norfolk 
 jackets, and get up early, and be nice to negroes, 
 and know who's head of the river. Well, I might 
 possibly get as far as the Norfolk jacket, provided 
 it hadn't got leather buttons, but I really couldn't 
 do the other things." 
 
 "There's not the faintest need. All you've got 
 to do is to talk." 
 
 "But my dear old thing, I never stop talking." 
 
 "At the Union, I mean." 
 
 Ray made a little grimace. "All right, I'll think 
 it over. Have another drink? At any rate, one 
 syphon's still got something in it." 
 
 That afternoon Ray went round to see Tommy 
 Quill, the President of the Union. He had rooms in 
 Beaumont Street, rooms which constrasted strangely 
 with his exotic nature. It was one of his poses to 
 maintain that he was entirely unaffected by his 
 surroundings, and he therefore had made no attempt 
 to remove his landlady's antimacassars or to take 
 from the gilt clocks the glass cases which enclosed 
 them like swollen bubbles. Pictures by Gaugin and 
 Goya hung side by side with lithographs by Marcus
 
 216 PATCHWORK 
 
 Stone and fly-blown interiors of Methodist chapels, 
 and the latest publications of the Poetry Bookshop 
 were piled haphazard on tables of bamboo which 
 spread their speckled and shiny legs into the dusty 
 carpet. The only change which Tommy had 
 initiated had been with regard to the wallpaper. 
 It had been of bright crimson, and he had written 
 a poem about it, which started: 
 
 You have lived too long with a crimson wall- 
 paper. 
 
 Try for a little while a lucid grey. 
 
 And he had subsequently put his poetry into 
 practice. 
 
 In this strange room Ray found Tommy sitting 
 in front of the fire, smoking a long clay pipe. 
 
 "My dear Raymond . . ." he fluted, without 
 getting up. 
 
 Ray sat down, and after a few moments 
 desultory conversation he explained the purpose of 
 his visit. 
 
 "But of course, that's what we've all been 
 wanting you to do ever since you came," said 
 Tommy, with the nearest approach to enthusiasm 
 which he ever manifested. 
 
 Ray smiled. "I know, but somehow I've never 
 taken very much to the idea. You see it means 
 conciliating public opinion and all that sort of 
 thing."
 
 BENEDICITE 217 
 
 "No, it doesn't. Look at me." 
 
 Ray did so. Certainly, with his bright yellow 
 tie and his straight hair of inordinate length he did 
 not present a particularly conciliatory appear- 
 ance. "I know — but then, you see, you're an ex- 
 ception." 
 
 "You'll soon be accusing me of proving a rule." 
 
 "I wonder. Anyway, It's very good of you to 
 encourage me. I think I'll have a shot." 
 
 It was eventually decided that he should speak 
 "on the paper" at the next debate, in favour of a 
 levy on capital. 
 
 "I think it'll be better to be rather stodgy, 
 because otherwise people will merely think I'm a 
 sort of society entertainer." 
 
 "Well, you are," said Tommy, as he waved him 
 down the linoleum-covered stairs. 
 
 To-day was Friday, so there was plenty of time 
 to prepare for next Thursday's debate. Meanwhile, 
 what a crowded life it was! The next morning he 
 was breakfasting at the Carlton Club, the Conserva- 
 tive club which had sprung up in the wake of the 
 Star, and was now attracting many by the generous 
 nature of its principles and the still more generous 
 nature of its dinners. There was something de- 
 lightful about these breakfasts, which never started 
 before a quarter to ten and were usually prefaced 
 by a cocktail. 
 
 "You are a most horribly luxurious lot, you
 
 2i8 PATCHWORK 
 
 know," he said to Peters, his host, and the President 
 of the club. "These rooms are much too com- 
 fortable." 
 
 Peters stretched himself back in his chair. 
 "Well, you should come and join us," he said. 
 
 "Oh no, I'm a Liberal." 
 
 "What is a Liberal?" 
 
 "I really don't know, but I know I am one. 
 Especially when surrounded by Tories." 
 
 Peters sipped his Bronx. "Nobody seems to 
 know quite what you are," he said. "Now that 
 you're going to speak in favour of a levy on capital 
 we all imagine you're a Bolshevik. By the way, 
 you're going to stand for office at the Union, aren't 
 you?" 
 
 "I may." 
 
 "My dear fellow, you must." Peters barked 
 out his sentences in a harsh but not unpleasant voice. 
 "You're really much the best speaker in Oxford at 
 present." 
 
 "Rot." 
 
 "Oh yes, you are." He peered at Ray from 
 over his glasses. 
 
 Ray smiled. "I'm a very hungry one at present, 
 at any rate." 
 
 "Oh, I'm most awfully sorry, we'll go and have 
 breakfast at once." 
 
 After breakfast Ray was shown over the club. 
 It was certainly most efficiently run and the club
 
 BENEDICITE 219 
 
 paper, The Oxford Saturday Review, with its grey 
 cover embellished with a discreet plaque of Disraeli, 
 made Ray fear that The Mercury had a serious 
 rival. 
 
 "Of course, you know, you made us do all this. 
 You and Steele." 
 
 "All what?" 
 
 "Well, found the club, and start the paper and 
 all that sort of thing. I don't believe Oxford would 
 have ever woken up at all if you two hadn't begun 
 to get things going." 
 
 Ray felt that what he said was true. He and 
 Steele had forced their hands. Already they had 
 countless imitators. It was not for nothing that he 
 had worked. 
 
 He lunched with Clive Stevens at the House. 
 Lunch was at half-past one, but as usual he was a 
 little late. All the House set was there — Guy 
 Farquharson in a Brigade blazer and brown suede 
 shoes, already a little drunk and consequently rather 
 wilder than usual; Victor Cartaret, very cool and 
 self-possessed, eating an apple and talking about 
 India; Willy Malone, tall and graceful, like a fawn, 
 showing Clive his latest Oriental sketches. 
 
 Ray talked incessantly during lunch and after- 
 wards improvised an entire opera in which he was 
 the tenor, Victor Cartaret was the soprano, Guy 
 Farquharson the bass, Willy Malone the premier 
 danseur, and everybody the chorus. The lunch
 
 2 2o PATCHWORK 
 
 drifted on into a tea, and then he went back to his 
 rooms. He felt suddenly that he had lost his grip 
 on life, and wondered why he cared so little. 
 
 He sat down and tried seriously to put himself 
 in his proper setting. He had once, out of curiosity, 
 experimented in Pelmanism, and he had discovered 
 that one of the first and most valuable lessons which 
 that admirable system teaches is that one should 
 make up one's mind without compromise as to what 
 one wants to do, and then as a no less important 
 consideration, do it. What did he want to do? 
 First of all, what had he done? 
 
 He looked back and saw his career at Oxford as 
 a sort of patchwork. There were bright patches and 
 dark patches, there were small patches and large 
 patches, but there seemed to be no consecutive 
 pattern, except that indescribable and vivid pattern 
 which a patchwork, in spite of its chaos, possesses, 
 and which is in some ways more arresting than any 
 carefully arranged design. Whatever else it was, it 
 was brilliant and coloured. And perhaps that was 
 what above all things he desired to be. It would 
 have been so easy to have made it formal and con- 
 ventional. He might have led the life of a scholar, 
 and cloistered himself, or of a dreamer, and walked 
 among shadows, or of a politician, and gesticulated 
 and harangued before glaring lights. As it was he 
 seemed to have combined them all. He remembered 
 how as a child his father had remonstrated with him
 
 BENEDICITE 221 
 
 for making such an indescribable jumble on his plate 
 of chicken and asparagus and bread sauce, and he 
 had replied, with as much dignity as his seven years 
 could muster, that "he didn't want to make a 
 garden of his plate." It was the same now. He 
 could not arrange things. He had so intense an 
 interest in life that he took everything as it came. 
 The result was confusion, but charming confusion. 
 It was a pot-pourri rather than a single scent, a 
 medley of chords rather than a melody, a patchwork 
 and not a pattern. 
 
 And yet he felt at the moment an intense desire 
 for order and arrangement. During the first part of 
 his Oxford life, he had been too busy to care, and 
 after that the long vac. had come with its gift of 
 beauty, and London with its gift of tears. But now 
 what was he to do? To-day seemed to have been 
 typical of his whole present existence. It could not 
 go on much longer or he would go mad. He must 
 do something; the difficulty was to know precisely 
 what. He couldn't suddenly become an athlete 
 because it would have bored him so intensely. He 
 couldn't spend his time at the piano because it would 
 mean the sacrifice of so many other interests, nor, 
 for the same reason, could he devote his whole 
 attention to work. 
 
 As he thought it over, he felt that Steele had 
 been right when he said that he should concentrate 
 on the Union. Here would be a definite object,
 
 222 PATCHWORK 
 
 and one such as he would enjoy. It would mean 
 publicity, encounter, opposition — it would mean all 
 those theatrical things which stirred his brain like 
 wild music. And he would have so great a chance 
 of success. The Star Club must surely help him. 
 It now numbered several hundred members, it had 
 definitely adopted The Oxford Mercury as its 
 mouthpiece, and Ray's speeches at its fortnightly 
 meetings were always greeted with applause. And 
 yet, in the whirl and tangle of Oxford life, he seemed 
 almost to have forgotten the Star Club. Certainly 
 he had not regarded it with anything like the enthusi- 
 asm that he had felt when it was first founded. He 
 had helped to choose its wallpaper, and had written 
 an article in the Mercury on "The School of Im- 
 moral Philosophy," which had been a complete but 
 good-humoured exposure of the politics of the hostile 
 conservative club, but that was all. He remem- 
 bered that evening in Barroni's rooms when Steele 
 and he had first outlined the policy of the club. 
 How he had thrilled with excitement at the thought 
 of the possibility of its regenerating the world 
 through the voice of youth! Liberalism — the new 
 Liberalism — those summer days when politics had 
 burned as purely and as brilliantly as the sun — 
 where had it all gone? 
 
 He cursed himself for asking so many questions. 
 The Star Club could very well look after itself. He 
 had started it, and he would give it more attention
 
 BENEDICITE 223 
 
 in the future. What he needed at the moment was 
 action, and that action could be best directed to the 
 concoction of a speech. He got up and took down 
 from the bookshelf Pethick Lawrence's "Levy on 
 Capital." And as soon as he started to wrestle with 
 the maze of figures with which the book was stored 
 there came over his mind an absolute peace.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 APPLAUSE 
 
 THURSDAY came, and with it the Union 
 debate. Ray felt for the first time in his life 
 rather nervous. There is a happy legend among 
 the Great Inarticulate, that speakers are born, not 
 made, and that the future orator emerges from his 
 mother's womb at the end of a long peroration. 
 Like most legends, it is false. Ray had only reached 
 his present facility as a speaker through long and 
 laborious practice. At school he had stood in front 
 of the glass — a favourite position for him in any 
 case — and had waved an inky finger of scorn at 
 imaginary opponents, and had curled his lip with 
 such superb bitterness that the matron had come 
 to the conclusion that he was sickening for some- 
 thing and had sent him to see the doctor. When he 
 had assured himself that his poses and gestures were 
 perfect, he would spend long hours in studying 
 elocution in order that every word he said would 
 be given its full value. He had learnt the valuable 
 lesson that to make oneself heard it is necessary, 
 as in singing, to exaggerate one's consonants. At 
 school he had practised this so assiduously, on 
 
 224
 
 APPLAUSE 225 
 
 curious words, such as "pickedevant," which he 
 pronounced "PicKedevanTT," and "prink" which 
 he called "PRRinK," that he had been invited not 
 to spit, and had finally been caned for using in- 
 decent language. However, he had persevered, 
 debating on every possible occasion, and polishing 
 to such an extent that now he had obtained a 
 remarkable facility. 
 
 With his speech on the Capital Levy he had 
 taken particular pains. His first impulse had been 
 to treat the subject epigrammatically — that was how 
 he had won his first laurels and it was certainly 
 what people would expect him to do. But as he 
 considered it more fully, he came to the conclusion 
 that, apart from the difficulty of making any jokes 
 at all about so extraordinarily forbidding a subject, 
 he would probably create more of an impression if 
 he delivered a speech of sombre gravity, and de- 
 luged his hearers with a torrent of figures. These 
 figures, for greater effect, he learnt by heart, and by 
 the time that Thursday evening came he found 
 himself able to repeat by rote a dazzling chain of 
 statistics. 
 
 He dined at the Grid with Steele and Tommy 
 Quill, dressed, as the speakers were accustomed, in 
 tails, with black buttons on their waistcoats. 
 
 "I'm awfully fond of the Grid, you know," said 
 Tommy as they sat down. "It's so unprofessional." 
 
 Ray twirled his wineglass. "I know. I should
 
 226 PATCHWORK 
 
 hate to have to see all my opponents before dinner. 
 It would make me so dreadfully nervous." 
 
 "My dear Ray, I thought you were never 
 nervous. What a heavenly sole! Forgive me. 
 But I think food is a great consolation on these 
 occasions." 
 
 Ray followed his example and for the rest of the 
 dinner they did not talk of the impending debate, 
 and at ten minutes to eight left the club and 
 hurried along the noisy Cornmarket to join the 
 stream of inhumanity that flowed into the Union. 
 
 Ray felt that of all the various Oxford nights 
 which he had experienced these Union nights were 
 perhaps the most vivid. The crowds of under- 
 graduates clattering over the stone floor on their 
 way to the debating hall, the little group of officers 
 and speakers clustering in various stages of ner- 
 vousness in the steward's office, the solemn entry 
 into the debating hall preceded by the President 
 — this seemed to be indeed the very perfection of 
 politics. 
 
 Ray, as soon as the debate had begun, lost his 
 sense of nervousness. The first speaker, Jack 
 Risien, was so extraordinarily bad that he felt 
 almost sorry for him. By one of those amazing 
 chances which occasionally raise mediocrities to 
 positions of eminence, he stood at the end of term 
 for the Presidency and was elected on a split vote. 
 To-night, therefore, was as important for him as
 
 APPLAUSE 227 
 
 it was for Ray, and after he had been speaking for 
 five minutes it was evident that his speech was a 
 failure. Ray watched him with amused contempt. 
 Thin and wiry, with a little fair moustache, he gave 
 the appearance of a fox terrior barking ineffectively 
 at a pack of wolves. The wolves (and there were 
 about five hundred of them) signified their dis- 
 approval by calling "question" and "shame" and 
 "withdraw" on every possible occasion, the only 
 effect of which on Risien was to make him thrust 
 his attenuated nose still further into the interior of 
 the blue books by which he was surrounded. 
 
 He sat down amid very feeble applause. Ray 
 heard his name called out, and walked slowly to the 
 despatch boxes. And he noticed as he did so that 
 the reception he received was decidedly cold. He 
 had been so counting on applause that for a moment 
 he felt almost paralysed. As he stood there, wait- 
 ing for complete silence, it suddenly flashed across 
 his mind that these papers, The Babe, The Moon, 
 The Son, and the numerous other publications in 
 which the lower strata of Magdalen and Queen's had 
 held him up to ridicule, might really have been 
 taken seriously by the less intelligent members of 
 the university. He even remembered a chance 
 remark that he had heard at the Grid after dinner, 
 that he had himself produced them as a form of 
 advertisement. The sudden and untimely recollec- 
 tion of these things made him feel for a brief
 
 228 PATCHWORK 
 
 moment unnerved. He wished sincerely that he 
 had brought some notes to help him if he failed. 
 
 And then he pulled himself together. He felt 
 nothing but anger, a fierce resentment against every- 
 body in the room. Who were they, these wooden- 
 faced creatures, with their beefy bodies and their 
 lack-lustre eyes? He had intended to preface his 
 speech with a graceful compliment to Risien on the 
 "skill" with which he had tackled the problem. He 
 threw it all to the winds. Instead, he stood up 
 straight and pointed his finger at Risien, and started 
 to speak. 
 
 Perhaps there were times when he had been 
 more convincing, but never had he been more 
 convinced. For not one moment did he take his 
 eyes from Risien's face, for not one moment did he 
 cease to point his finger at him, for not one moment 
 did he cease to pour out a stream of bitter invective, 
 so bitter that Risien squirmed in his chair, while 
 Tommy Quill smiled feebly, wondering if he ought 
 to call Ray to order, and the House listened at first 
 in astonishment and then in amused surprise. . . . 
 "He has glorified mediocrity, he has canonised 
 corruption, and he has sung the praises of profligacy. 
 That is the honourable member whom you are to 
 follow, that is the honourable member whom you 
 are asked to support." . . . Slowly Ray lowered 
 his accusing finger. The House roared its delight. 
 
 The rest of his speech Ray delivered as he had
 
 APPLAUSE 229 
 
 intended. It was a complete contrast to the first 
 part. He spoke for nearly half an hour and never 
 hesitated in his flow of statistics, never blundered 
 for even an instant in the millions and hundreds of 
 millions with which he dealt as naturally as if he 
 had been talking about the weather. The Morning 
 Post the next day, in its report of the Union debate, 
 said that "Mr. Sheldon showed an assurance and a 
 financial ability which, though in our opinion mis- 
 guided, would be sufficiently creditable in a Chan- 
 cellor of the Exchequer." The House endorsed 
 The Morning Post's opinion. There was no doubt 
 about their verdict when he sat down. 
 
 Ray felt supremely happy, and life seemed 
 particularly wonderful that night. He felt that he 
 would like to go on speaking for ever. He lay back 
 in his seat on the committee benches and closed his 
 eyes. He did not even attempt to listen to the 
 creature who was feebly attempting to deal with 
 some of his arguments, and consequently driving a 
 good many honourable members out of the debating 
 hall. Instead he saw himself standing on a huge 
 platform addressing endless crowds. He saw him- 
 self making speech after speech, tearing his soul 
 with eloquence. He felt that he would like to 
 speak for ever. . . . 
 
 The debate drew to its close, and the tellers 
 advanced from the voting doors. The motion was 
 was carried by over a hundred votes.
 
 230 PATCHWORK 
 
 "And now let's go along to my rooms," said 
 Tommy Quill, coming down from his throne. 
 
 They filed out of the debating hall on their way 
 to Quill's rooms, and Ray found himself the object 
 of many congratulations. He noticed David in the 
 background. Ray took his arm. 
 
 "My dear child, I never knew you came to 
 these debates." 
 
 David laughed. "I don't usually, but I'm jolly 
 glad I did to-night. You really were marvellous." 
 
 "Was I? I don't know. Anyway it was rather 
 amusing. I'm afraid Risien must be rather sick 
 with me now, though." 
 
 "He ought to be damned honoured that you gave 
 him so much attention." 
 
 David wished him good-night and ran into the 
 gloom of St. Michael Street, while Ray walked on to 
 catch up the others. One went to Beaumont Street 
 through mazes of silent back streets which were 
 always left in darkness. After the glitter and bril- 
 liance of the debating hall they were particularly 
 welcome. In these bewitched entries he felt that 
 his personality became still more rich till it invested 
 with some of its own colour even the little line of 
 undergraduates who clattered over the stones in 
 front. They looked curiously unreal as they swung 
 out of the dark entrance into the broad and moon- 
 swept expanse of Beaumont Street. Like a line of 
 marionettes, blown here and there in the November
 
 APPLAUSE 231 
 
 wind. . . . Tommy Quill with his cloak flapping 
 grotesque wings behind him, Steele striding by his 
 side, hands in pockets, head bent forward and almost 
 hidden under a black Homburg hat, Risien caper- 
 ing along, a thin shadow of silver and grey, and a 
 line of others, the noise of their footsteps echoing 
 as though they were one man. Ray noticed with a 
 smile of amusement that they were all, with the 
 exception of Steele, walking in step. 
 
 He wondered if the fact that they were walking 
 in step was symbolical of their mental attitude. It 
 seemed distastefully redolent of the parade ground. 
 He had tried so hard to get them out of the habit — 
 perhaps his whole career at Oxford had been one 
 great endeavour to make people "break step," to 
 make them swing away from the channels into which 
 their lives seemed unnaturally to have crystallised 
 during the war. How far more delightful it would 
 be if they stopped walking as though they were 
 soldiers in the wind! Tommy Quill might have 
 gone on in front, a thin, macabre figure, Steele 
 would have pursued his own dauntless way, and the 
 others — what gestures and what individuality might 
 they not assume, while Ray could bring up the rear, 
 the silent one, the universal critic! If only they 
 would break step ! . . . 
 
 They reached 32, Beaumont Street, and Tommy 
 held open the door while they streamed inside. 
 Ray blinked his eyes at the sudden glare of the
 
 232 PATCHWORK 
 
 light. At first he had not been sure whether he 
 really wanted to come, but in a few moments he 
 was glad he had not refused. These were ; in spite 
 of their divergency, such extraordinarily pleasant 
 young men, and he felt that these gatherings after 
 the Union were in some ways the most delightful 
 coteries that Oxford could provide. Every one was 
 exhilarated by the excitement of the debate, and 
 they were still more exhilarated during the Presi- 
 dency of Tommy by the champagne with which in 
 generous quantities he never failed to ply his guests. 
 
 The debate had finished early, so that there was 
 no need to hurry away in order to be in college by 
 twelve. Ray had all the prestige which attached 
 to the maker of a brilliant speech, and there was no 
 one in the room who jarred. Tommy Quill was an 
 ideal host, and dispensed champagne and chocolate 
 biscuits as though he were asking one a favour to 
 accept them, Steele was standing in a corner by the 
 fire gesticulating with intense energy on some 
 abstruse problem of ethics, and, in addition to these, 
 there was Whitely, jaw protruding, mouth open, his 
 whole attitude Olympian and aloof, Tarn Edwardes, 
 making cynical remarks, and Jack Risien, trying to 
 be clever, while Barroni, in ex-Presidential glory, 
 was delivering a shower of epigrams on life in 
 general to nobody in particular. 
 
 Ray sat in the window and watched them with 
 amused tolerance. He felt at that moment sub-
 
 APPLAUSE 233 
 
 limely superior to them all. Barroni was probably 
 a better speaker even than he, and Steele pos- 
 sessed a tenacity which was lacking in himself, but 
 he knew that he had a sacre feu which was denied 
 to them. Or that was, at any rate, how he felt, and 
 even as the thought came into his mind he contra- 
 dicted it and told himself that he was. being a fool. 
 However, he was too happy to-night to worry over 
 any problems of introspection. He sipped his 
 champagne gratefully, and lit another cigarette. 
 
 "Meanwhile, we seem to be neglecting the lion 
 of the evening," said Barroni, coming over to Ray's 
 window-seat. He was followed by a host of smaller 
 fry. 
 
 Ray blushed. 
 
 "You mustn't look embarrassed, you know," 
 said Tommy. "When you're President you must 
 preserve an everlasting sang froid." The latter 
 expression seemed to cause him labial diffi- 
 culty. 
 
 "I'm sure I should never do it as well as you," 
 returned Ray. 
 
 "Don't be absurd." 
 
 "No, really. Some of those remarks of yours 
 were quite superb." 
 
 "Well, they were probably prepared before- 
 hand." 
 
 "Really? In any case, there must have been lots 
 of questions which weren't."
 
 234 PATCHWORK 
 
 "Let's put him through his paces," said Barroni. 
 
 "All right, I feel rather in the mood for answering 
 questions." 
 
 Barroni stood in front of him with folded arms. 
 "What would you reply," he said, "if some one got 
 up and asked you why there was no soap in the 
 lavatories?" 
 
 "But isn't there?" 
 
 "That isn't the point. You'd have to answer it 
 somehow." 
 
 "Well, I should say that I had always under- 
 stood that cleanliness was next to godliness, and 
 consequently the question was out of order, be- 
 cause theological matters can't be discussed in the 
 Union." 
 
 Barroni laughed, and Steele came forward. 
 "Now I'll ask one. Please, sir, why are there no 
 stamp lickers in the writing rooms?" 
 
 "Oh, that's easy to answer," said Ray. " T 
 have always understood that the honourable member 
 was willing to use his tongue.' " 
 
 "Sarcastic brute," said Steele. "Oh yes, you'll 
 get on all right." * 
 
 "Well, I'm not President yet. I'm not even on 
 the standing committee." 
 
 "Never mind, you jolly well will be." 
 
 Then every one started to ask him questions — 
 questions about every conceivable subject, until he 
 was unable to think of any more answers.
 
 APPLAUSE 235 
 
 "Good Lord, it's ten to twelve, and I've got to 
 get back to the House," said Tarn Edwardes. 
 
 His remark was the signal for the break up of 
 the party. 
 
 Ray walked back to Balliol with Steele. 
 
 "Well, aren't you glad you took my advice?" 
 
 "About making the speech?" 
 
 Steele nodded. 
 
 "Yes, I rather think I am." 
 
 Steele took his arm. "I don't believe you know 
 what an impression you made." 
 
 Ray shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "No — but seriously. I've hardly ever seen any- 
 thing like it — at any rate at Oxford." 
 
 "I was afraid Risien would be annoyed." 
 
 Steele laughed. "Of course he was. Absolutely 
 furious. But that doesn't matter. He deserved 
 it. And anyway, what the devil does it matter what 
 one person thinks, when you've delighted every- 
 body else?" 
 
 "I suppose it doesn't." 
 
 "Of course it doesn't. You've absolutely wiped 
 out any sort of hostility there was before. The 
 wrong sort of hostility, I mean. Naturally some 
 people will hate you in future, but then it'll only be 
 jealousy." 
 
 They turned back and walked again down the 
 Broad. There was still five minutes before mid- 
 night.
 
 236 PATCHWORK 
 
 "I believe you'd beat Risien if you stood for 
 the Presidency at the end of the term." 
 
 "Good Lord, d'you mean to say that he is going 
 to stand?" Ray looked at him in astonishment. 
 
 "Most certainly he is." 
 
 "But he can't speak." 
 
 "I know. But these elections don't go altogether 
 by speaking. They go by seniority, and popularity, 
 and absurd things like that." 
 
 "I should think they damned well were ab- 
 surd — at any rate, if a creature like Risien could 
 get in." 
 
 "All the same, I think you'd beat them all if 
 you tried." 
 
 "For the Presidency?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Ray laughed. "No, I don't know whether I 
 particularly want to stand." 
 
 "What do you want to do?" 
 
 "I honestly don't know. I wish I did." How 
 often had he asked himself the same question! 
 
 They walked up and down, Steele doing all the 
 talking. Midnight struck, but they took no notice 
 of the chiming bells, nor of the fines which they 
 would have to pay for ignoring their warning. 
 Oxford was deserted, the roofs washed with silver, 
 the roads white and wind-parched. Neither of 
 them seemed to feel the cold, Steele because he was 
 talking so vividly of what Ray ought to do, Ray
 
 APPLAUSE 237 
 
 because he himself was listening with intense 
 abstraction. 
 
 What a great faith Steele seemed to have in 
 him! He wondered if it were justified. He 
 listened to this account of himself — his past, his 
 present, his future — with an interest accentuated by 
 the romantic background against which it was 
 delivered. He seemed to step outside himself while 
 Steele pulled the wires that animated his being. 
 
 "You see, I look upon you as though you were 
 a sort of work of art in which I'm having some share 
 in bringing to perfection. . . ." 
 
 He ceased talking. 
 
 "My God, it's cold." 
 
 He shivered. Ray thanked him, but he felt he 
 was speaking mechanically, and there was more 
 warmth in the handshake he gave him as he bid him 
 good-night through the great doors of Balliol than 
 in the meagre words in which he had attempted to 
 express his gratitude for Steele's help. 
 
 But it was not for his actual advice that he was 
 most grateful. That, after all, had merely been 
 that he should stand as Secretary for the Union. 
 Ray had promised to adopt his advice, but he 
 realised that it would need all the romantic en- 
 thusiasm of youth to invest such a little contest as 
 that with supreme importance. It was because 
 Steele had shown him another side of his own per- 
 sonality that he was grateful; he seemed to have
 
 2 3 8 PATCHWORK 
 
 thrown open yet another window through which he 
 might look in upon himself. As they had walked 
 up and down this wide and wind-swept street he 
 had not been thinking of his own achievements, past 
 and future. He had been thinking only of his 
 own character. . . . 
 
 Self — always self. How bitterly cold the street 
 seemed suddenly to be! ...
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 PURPLE 
 
 RAY had not realised before how strenuous was 
 the competition in Oxford political life. 
 These innumerable clubs, with their separate or- 
 ganisations, even their separate papers, must surely 
 be a phenomenon caused by the war. However, it 
 was a step in the right direction. He believed im- 
 plicitly in this enthusiasm, this endless discussion. 
 It was in standing waters that one should look for 
 poison. 
 
 However, some of the Oxford politicians cer- 
 tainly seemed to carry their enthusiasm to almost 
 unpleasant lengths. This was particularly notice- 
 able among the Union candidates. If one saw a 
 man walking down the street, smiling at every one 
 he met, grinning feverishly at recalcitrant Indians, 
 slapping the acquaintance of a night before on the 
 back, inviting all and sundry to breakfast or to 
 tea, according to their particular temperaments, one 
 knew for certain that that man was standing for 
 office at the Union. Ray did not indulge in these 
 habits. In fact, Whitely, who was standing for 
 Junior Treasurer, informed him that unless he con- 
 
 239
 
 2 4 o PATCHWORK 
 
 ciliated public opinion a little more, he would not 
 stand the faintest chance of being elected. "Per- 
 sonally," he said, 'T'm going to walk about in front 
 of the Union all the afternoon in shorts." 
 
 "In shorts?" asked Ray, in astonishment. 
 
 "Yes. It gets the athletic vote, you know." 
 
 "Is there an athletic vote?" 
 
 "Oh, rather." 
 
 Ray laughed. "Well, I'm sure if they saw me 
 in my shorts, which are far too well cut and quite 
 devoid of mud, they'd promptly vote for some one 
 else." 
 
 Whitely smile/1. "Well, you'll get the intellect- 
 ual vote, and the vote of anybody with a sense of 
 humour, and probably the vote of a good many 
 rowing men, too, as you seem to know all the Blues, 
 and people like that." 
 
 "Are you really sure about all this Vote' busi- 
 ness? I believe people merely vote for the man 
 they think the best speaker." 
 
 "Oh, rather not. They vote in the most funny 
 way. They vote a lot by colleges, and by cliques 
 — some people even vote religion." 
 
 "Damn," said Ray. "I haven't been to Balliol 
 chapel once since I've been to Oxford." 
 
 "Never mind, I expect you'll get in all right." 
 
 And get in he did, by the largest majority of any- 
 body. Jack Risien was elected President, Rodd 
 Junior Librarian, Whitely Junior Treasurer, and
 
 PURPLE 241 
 
 Ray Secretary. Steele for the present was content 
 to remain on the standing committee. 
 
 Ray was naturally pleased. He was having tea 
 with David at Trinity when Steele burst in with 
 the result. 
 
 "You got 309, Pollen 127," he said. "It's 
 splendid of you, Ray. Of course, you must stay up 
 now till you're President. The Union's much the 
 most important thing up here." 
 
 How absurdly excited every one was! He might 
 have been elected to the Presidency of the United 
 States from the fuss that every one made. How- 
 ever, it was certainly pleasant to have this new 
 activity. 
 
 "Dear old Ray, I'm most awfully glad," said 
 David, "and particularly for one reason." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 David paused. "Well, because of all these 
 papers and things. You see, I thought there was 
 going to be a regular sort of campaign against you, 
 and this Union thing shows that there isn't." 
 
 Ray laughed. "That's much the most comfort- 
 ing thing you could have said. I don't care how 
 many papers say absurd things about me provided 
 I've got people like you. Why are you always so 
 absurdly nice to me, by the way?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't know. Silly, isn't it?" 
 
 "Fearfully silly," smiled Ray, taking his arm. 
 
 Lady Sheldon was of course intensely proud of
 
 242 PATCHWORK 
 
 Ray's election to the Union. His other activities 
 had dazzled, but bewildered her. She had been 
 vaguely enthusiast c about The I sis, she had bound 
 The Oxford Mercury in white vellum, she had cut 
 out Ray's articles and poems and had pasted them 
 in a large book, with so much gum that they all 
 stuck together, she had listened with pride to the 
 accounts of the Star Club, and she had been espe- 
 cially pleased when he had played at a Balliol con- 
 cert. But this new activity appealed to her more 
 than any other. 
 
 "You see, Ray, your father was President of the 
 Union," she said to him sadly, on the afternoon he 
 arrived home. "I do wish you could be too." 
 
 "Of course I will, mother, if you want me to 
 be." 
 
 "But surely, Ray, it isn't as easy as all that?" 
 
 Ray laughed. "Oh, everything's easy if you 
 want it to be." 
 
 "You are a wonderful person, you know." 
 
 "Rot." 
 
 "I'm so terribly afraid you've got too much on 
 your mind. And I don't believe you get enough 
 sleep. You never go to bed before midnight." 
 
 "Well, I can't sleep if I go to bed any earlier." 
 
 "That's a very bad sign. You ought to be able 
 to sleep whenever you want. Napoleon could, 
 couldn't he?"
 
 PURPLE 243 
 
 Ray smiled. "Could he? Anyway, I'm not 
 Napoleon." 
 
 She took his arm. "I know. He was such a 
 horrid man. Come and see your room." 
 
 They went upstairs. 
 
 "Oh, mother, how perfect of you!" 
 
 He gave her a hug. 
 
 "I thought you would like to see them again." 
 
 "Them" was a row of golliwogs which had been 
 Ray's most cherished possessions when he was a 
 child. They were perched on the mantelpiece — 
 two small ones with silky hair and blue jackets — 
 Tweedledum and Tweedledee; then a female with 
 no hair and only one eye — Wilhelmina by name; 
 next to her the merest shadow of a golliwog, one 
 leg and both arms of whom had been cut off by 
 Ray in an infantile bout of sadism, and finally 
 "The King of the Cannibal Isles," a brown golli- 
 wog with curtain rings in his ears and a frayed 
 gold thread round his neck. 
 
 "You see . . ." she hesitated, "I don't want you 
 to grow up too quickly." 
 
 Ray said nothing, but turned his back and 
 rubbed his nose in Tweedledum's hair. When he 
 turned round his mother was gone. 
 
 He sat down and sighed. Was he, as she had 
 said, "growing up too quickly"? He was twenty- 
 one — in his twenty-second year. Good God! A
 
 244 PATCHWORK 
 
 third of his life had gone already. Youth — youth 
 — would he ever realise that he was young, before 
 it was too late? Sometimes, when he looked in 
 the glass and saw some absurd little wrinkle, or the 
 slowly darkening complexion of his face, he would 
 feel that youth was already over, that life was al- 
 ready done, before he had lived at all. Somehow, 
 he seemed to have done so little. He thought of 
 all his wasted time — he thought of the things he 
 might have done. Summer holidays in which he 
 would have lived all day by the Cornish seas, long 
 summer evenings in which he would have walked 
 with some friend, summer nights in which deli- 
 ciously, and with half-closed eyes, he would have 
 drawn in his breath and realised the wonder of 
 being eighteen. 
 
 How stuffy the room seemed suddenly to be! 
 He wandered round and round touching anything 
 which attracted his notice. He opened a book of 
 poems and closed it with a snap. The rhymes 
 seemed to jingle, the metre seemed sing-song and 
 ridiculous. He blew out a candle which was smok- 
 ing and pressed with nervous fingers the sodden 
 wax. He ran his hands through his hair and sat 
 down at the empty table. 
 
 "Do you realise," he said to himself, "that here 
 you are, aged twenty-one, young, strong, healthy, 
 with everything before you? In a few years you 
 will be growing old. In a few years you will say
 
 PURPLE 245 
 
 good-bye to youth." He sat staring at his clenched 
 fingers. 
 
 That was the tragedy of life, that we never 
 realise happiness when it is ours. Ray had a hor- 
 ror of growing old and a sheer terror of death. He 
 sometimes felt about life as he had felt, when he 
 was a very small boy, about going to boarding 
 school. He had lain awake at night, blinking his 
 small eyes, and twisting his hair into tiny spiral 
 curls. "Three years more," he had said to himself, 
 "only three years, and then I shall have to go." 
 He had fought night and day with the horror of 
 going to school. As each summer had gone by, 
 as each winter had swept the leaves from the 
 trees, he had counted the months, counted the 
 days. They seemed to him then all that he had 
 left. 
 
 And now it was the same about life. Ray sud- 
 denly realised, with an intensity of horror that 
 must come to all men who breathe, that one day he 
 would have to die. Death — dissolution — oblivion 
 — that was the end of everything. That was the 
 end of all his hopes, all his desires. That was the 
 end. He felt as though he were in a cage, which 
 had outside it death, and only death. It was all 
 right now — he had still plenty of time. He was 
 young, he had many years. But gradually they 
 would shorten, gradually they would be wiped out. 
 And he knew that when he was a very old man, just
 
 246 PATCHWORK 
 
 as when he had been a very young child, he would 
 count the months, count the days. . . . 
 
 Youth! He stretched out his arms, he flung 
 back his head, he drew in a deep breath. Youth! 
 He was young and yet he did not seem to be happy. 
 Was it all an illusion, this theory of happiness? 
 Now that he looked back on his school life, it 
 seemed the most wonderful time that any man could 
 possibly have. And yet it had not been. There 
 had been moments, it is true — moments of sheer 
 ecstasy, moments of perfect friendship. But there 
 had been so many little things, little petty, sordid, 
 disagreeable things — he had forgotten those. 
 
 And now it was the same. . . . 
 
 After dinner he decided he would go to the Rus- 
 sian ballet. He had about him the old unrest, the 
 incapacity for concentration which for a year now 
 he seemed to have conquered. He walked quickly 
 from Curzon Street to Leicester Square, and en- 
 tered the Alhambra. He bought a rover ticket be- 
 cause he felt incapable of sitting still in a stall. 
 
 After a few minutes he was again happy. How 
 exquisite was the superb folly of "La Boutique 
 Fantasque"! These ballet girls, with their chig- 
 nons and their swollen bustles, pirouetting in pairs 
 across the glaring stages, seemed by their very 
 futility to place themselves far above the beefy and 
 perspiring masses in the stalls who followed their 
 movements. Colour — ah, that was what he wanted,
 
 PURPLE 247 
 
 he was thirsty for colour. He drank in greedily the 
 flaring crimson of Russian peasant costumes, his 
 eyes rested with a delicious peace on the silver and 
 ivory arabesque of the "Sylphides." What an 
 astonishing artist Massine was! Those marvellous 
 choruses, with their rolling purple, and their heavy 
 restless gold — those moonlit cedars, under which 
 white girls joined hands with velvet lovers — those 
 woodland scenes with their mystery and their mon- 
 strous crimson flowers — they were almost immoral, 
 so perfect and so irresistible was their appeal to the 
 senses. 
 
 As he dreamed his way through the performance, 
 Ray realised how vital a part colour had played in 
 his life. He remembered the little box of crayons 
 which he had found on his return from France. 
 He remembered much further back than that — 
 bowls of wine-red roses in old drawing-rooms, the 
 glitter, on wind-swept hills, of yellow cowslips near 
 his old home, and a medley of white and gold 
 daisies in which he had rolled when he had been a 
 child in pinafores. Sunsets, flowers, blue waves — 
 had they coloured his life as they should, or had 
 the colours faded and gone? 
 
 To-night was a night for love. Of course, that 
 was the whole secret of his troubles, that he had 
 nothing to love. He had not even a real friend, let 
 alone a lover. He realised, even while in his mind 
 were reflected the coloured fires of the stage, even
 
 2 4 8 PATCHWORK 
 
 while his body swayed to the sinuous rhythm of 
 the orchestra, that all his brilliance was barren 
 without this. Self, self — that was what his life was 
 now. He loved only himself, he played only for 
 himself, he laughed only for himself — it was for 
 him only that the sun rose and the moon shone, 
 that the sea raged and the stars were quenched. 
 
 That was the extraordinary part about him, at 
 present, that while he was still capable of inspiring 
 affection — passion, if you like — he seemed no longer 
 able to return it. Ray had not lived what is called 
 "a moral life." He had too much sacre feu for that 
 and he was also too much of an artist to spoil his 
 youth by incompleteness, or by the renunciation of 
 any experience which might enrich his personality. 
 Even if he had been inclined to cloister himself it 
 would have been hardly possible to have lived as 
 he had done and remain, in the words of noncon- 
 formist parsons, "unscathed." He might possibly 
 have passed through school unspotted from the 
 world — as a matter of fact, he did — but to plunge 
 straight from school into the Brigade of Guards, 
 with his good looks, his precocious cleverness, his 
 charming personality, endowed with a considerable 
 income, and at a time, moreover, when London was 
 in the depth of a social decadence unparalleled in 
 history — to have expected him to adhere to the 
 strict path of virtue under such circumstances 
 would have been too much to ask not only of him,
 
 PURPLE 249 
 
 but of the men and women by whom he was sur- 
 rounded, and in whom he found so ready an audi- 
 ence to captivate. 
 
 But though he had known passion, and though 
 he had disovered how easily he could play with 
 other people's affections, he had not yet discovered 
 love. Sometimes he doubted whether he would 
 ever find it in the class in which his lot had been 
 cast. 
 
 His eyes wandered contemptuously over the 
 swaying audience. The lights had gone up, and he 
 could see distinctly over the stalls. There in the 
 fifth row was Marie Featherstone. He recognised 
 the pale hair at once, and saw that she was wearing 
 her famous necklace, which had been robbed of one 
 of its finest pearls to provide Ray with a tie-pin. 
 Behind her was Sidney Vernon, who had left Eton 
 under a cloud, and had departed from the Brigade 
 in a thunderstorm. He was now endeavouring to 
 catch Ray's eye, but Ray refused to be caught, and 
 rested his gaze on Diana Blois, who was sitting 
 alone and in black, her profile adjusted on the 
 utilitarian principle — that it might give the greatest 
 happiness to the greatest number. Ray smiled, 
 when he saw her, at the recollection of the last 
 words that had passed between them. She had 
 said, at rather a critical moment: "I think you're 
 the most wonderful person I've ever met." Ray 
 had replied, without a moment's hesitation, "I prob-
 
 250 PATCHWORK 
 
 ably am." Never had he seen an affection wither 
 so speedily. It would perhaps have withered even 
 more speedily if she had known that it was not the 
 first time that he had given that answer, and under 
 similar circumstances. 
 
 What fools they all were! He felt that he would 
 like to go out into the street, and find some charm- 
 ing unaffected person like a bank clerk, whose 
 natural simplicity had not been warped, and who 
 would like him for himself, and not for his looks, 
 or his conversation, or his money. If he knew 
 anybody like that it would be delightful to go any- 
 where with him — to cinemas, or to A. B.C. shops, or 
 to share a shilling at a coffee stall. Or if he wanted 
 love and not friendship he would have found it an 
 adventure to take a girl of the streets, to treat her 
 with chivalry and with gentleness, to dress her in 
 beautiful clothes, to set her walking, like Manon 
 Lescaut, before gilded mirrors. . . . 
 
 What a blasted prig he was becoming even in 
 imagination! He turned, shouldered his way 
 through the crowd, and went to get a drink. 
 
 And the little circle at the bar wondered who 
 this young man was who said such amusing things to 
 the barmaids, and who was so generous in his gifts 
 of "whiskey sours" to old gentlemen whom he had 
 never in his life seen before. And why he sud- 
 denly went away with the shadow of so strange a 
 laughter in his eyes. . . .
 
 PART III
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 LAVENDER 
 
 IT was Ray's last day at home before his return 
 to Oxford, and he decided to spend it with his 
 mother. He was therefore rather annoyed when 
 Helen rang up in the morning and announced her 
 intention of coming to lunch. He had not seen 
 her since the last day of the summer vacation, and 
 she always seemed to act as an irritant. 
 
 "So tiresome," said Lady Sheldon, as she put 
 down the recevier. "But really I couldn't think 
 of any excuse." 
 
 "Damn!" 
 
 "Ray!" 
 
 "Sorry, mother." He bent down to give her a 
 kiss. "But I specially looked forward to having 
 this day by ourselves." 
 
 "I know." 
 
 "And Helen is so tedious nowadays." 
 
 He frowned and went upstairs to see if his pack- 
 ing had been finished. Everything seemed to be 
 arranged except his books, which he placed hap- 
 hazard at the top of one of his trunks. During 
 the last three weeks he had been working very 
 
 253
 
 254 PATCHWORK 
 
 hard indeed — sometimes as much as ten hours a 
 day, and though he was pleased to have digested 
 a solid mass of one of his most difficult periods of 
 history — the middle of the nineteenth century — 
 he yet felt exceedingly tired, and quite unable to 
 cope with so aggressive a personality as Helen's. 
 
 She was particularly irritating this morning. 
 
 "And how are the nineties getting on?" she said, 
 when she arrived. 
 
 He laughed in spite of himself. "Helen, I warn 
 you that I'm feeling particularly on edge just now, 
 and if you start saying that sort of thing ..." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "I shall smack you, that's all." 
 
 "Oh, how very dull! By the way, do you like 
 my hat?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Good. I'm so glad." She went to the glass 
 and looked at herself with approval. Then she 
 turned round. "I think you might say something. 
 It is a very significant hat." 
 
 "What does it signify? That sort of pillar-box 
 red might mean anything." 
 
 "Labour." 
 
 "Do you always air your political opinions in 
 your clothes?" 
 
 "Silly question, Ray. Not up to your usual 
 standard."
 
 LAVENDER 255 
 
 "I know, I'm tired." 
 
 "Too many activities at Oxford?" 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "By the way, I never congratulated you on your 
 Union business." 
 
 "Oh, that's nothing." 
 
 "It's a very great deal. I intend to see that 
 you're President." 
 
 "Thanks." 
 
 "Only why on earth you choose to pretend to 
 to be a Liberal, I can't understand." 
 
 "No, you couldn't." 
 
 "It's worse than the nineties. It's the sixties 
 really. We shall have you going back to Glad- 
 stonian collars soon, and writing books on Church 
 and State." 
 
 He said nothing. 
 
 "Give me a cigarette, please. No, not one of 
 those beastly things. Haven't you got a gasper?" 
 
 "No, I haven't. And I think it's revolting for 
 any girl to smoke gaspers." 
 
 "Don't you approve of women smoking?" 
 
 "Yes. But not gasping." 
 
 "Well, I shall have to smoke one of my own. 
 I can't afford those elaborate gold-tipped creations 
 that you get." 
 
 She produced a tiny cigarette-case, covered with 
 emeralds.
 
 256 PATCHWORK 
 
 "You could keep yourself in decent cigarettes 
 for about forty life-times if you sold that," said 
 Ray. 
 
 She pretended not to hear him. 
 
 "Tell me why you're a Liberal." 
 
 "Because it's the only thing to be." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Oh, I can't talk before lunch. Have a cocktail 
 or something." 
 
 "All right." 
 
 He went to the table and mixed one. 
 
 "Italian as well as French?" 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 "And will you have ice in it, or is it cold enough?" 
 
 "Ice in it, please. I like to hear the noise." 
 
 "Now you're being decadent yourself." 
 
 "Oh no. Merely greedy. Cheerio. And here's 
 mamma!" 
 
 Lady Sheldon came in, and gave her a kiss. 
 Ray was struck by the extraordinary contrast be- 
 tween the two. 
 
 Although his mother was at least twenty years 
 older than Helen she always gave him the impres- 
 sion of being the younger of the two. Not that 
 Helen looked old. Indeed, with her fresh com- 
 plexion, her smooth black hair, and her lithe 
 straight figure, she looked like an eager boy of 
 nineteen. But there was a masterful expression on 
 her face which made one forget her youth.
 
 LAVENDER 
 
 257 
 
 "I've just been giving Ray advice," she said, as 
 she returned the kiss. 
 
 "How nice of you!" said Lady Sheldon vaguely. 
 
 "It wasn't in the least nice. It was merely silly." 
 
 "Oh, Ray." 
 
 "Yes, it was. Mother, do look at Helen's hat." 
 
 "It's a very pretty hat." 
 
 Helen blew triumphant waves of smoke to the 
 ceiling. "There you are. Ray. said it was impos- 
 sible." 
 
 "I didn't. I merely said that it was silly to air 
 one's political convictions in one's headgear." 
 
 "What do you mean, Ray?" said his mother. 
 
 "Well, it's a Labour hat. Or rather, Helen says 
 it is." 
 
 "Oh, I see." Lady Sheldon looked at it as if 
 it would explode. 
 
 "Ray's got no taste at all," said Helen. 
 
 His mother was up in arms at once. "How 
 horrid of you, Helen! He designed the dress I'm 
 wearing now." 
 
 Helen looked for a moment taken aback. "I'm 
 sorry. Hundreds of apologies. Because it really 
 is a very beautiful dress." 
 
 It was. Grey satin, exquisitely draped, with a 
 hanging overmantle of silver net, decorated with tiny 
 silver rose-leaves. 
 
 "But I wasn't quarrelling with his aesthetics 
 really. It was his politics."
 
 2 5 8 PATCHWORK 
 
 "I know. I hope they are all right. His father 
 was a Conservative," she added sadly. 
 
 "That's worse still.* He ought to make up his 
 mind, and go red." 
 
 "Red?" 
 
 "Labour." 
 
 "Oh, Helen dear, how dreadful!" 
 
 "It isn't dreadful in the least." 
 
 During lunch she expounded, her theories at 
 length. Neither Ray nor his mother did much 
 talking. Helen, apparently, that morning- had been 
 to the Bomb Shop — Henderson's in Charing Cross 
 Road. 
 
 "Such a fascinating shop," she said. "No win- 
 dows. You just walk right in." 
 
 "And what happens when you get inside?" 
 
 "Nothing very much. You just feel extraordi- 
 narily wicked to be there. All the Bolshevik litera- 
 ture, you know. The Daily Herald seems quite 
 respectable compared with some of the things. 
 Great piles of The Communist, and The Plebs, and 
 stocks of naughty little pamphlets with pictures of 
 bloated capitalists on the outside." 
 
 "How very feeble!" said Ray. 
 
 "Feeble?" 
 
 "Yes. It's all so obvious. And so cheap. It's 
 a sort of hopelessness, really. You think you're 
 doing something remarkably fine by going over to
 
 LAVENDER 
 
 259 
 
 the Labour party, whereas you're really showing 
 that you've given up hope." 
 
 "I certainly have given up hope of the present 
 organisation of society." 
 
 "And what sort of hope have you of any other 
 organisation? The only reason you can have for 
 going 'Labour/ apart from a vague sort of senti- 
 mentalism, is economic. And you know nothing 
 about economics." 
 
 "Neither do you." 
 
 "On the contrary, I happen to know a good deal." 
 
 "Anyway," said Helen defiantly, "I like the 
 atmosphere of the place." 
 
 " 'Atmosphere' is the most meaningless word in 
 the English language." 
 
 "Is it? Anyway, I like it. I like red ties, and 
 the people that wear them. You meet the most 
 exciting people there. Rather dirty, of course, but 
 wonderfully vigorous. I was talking to a Russian 
 anarchist this morning." 
 
 "Helen, really!" said Lady Sheldon. "We shall 
 all be arrested." 
 
 "No, we shan't. He was a most charming man. 
 He said, 'When we've got Whitehall the country is 
 ours.' I said that was what I always thought my- 
 self. I'm meeting him at the Cafe Royal to-night." 
 
 "He'll probably knife you." 
 
 She clapped her hands. "Do you think he will? 
 How wonderful!"
 
 2 6o PATCHWORK 
 
 "Masochist." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "It means a desire to be hurt. Don't you know 
 anything about psycho-analysis?" 
 
 "Not much." 
 
 "Well, I should read some if I were you. It 
 would probably appeal to you." 
 
 "Very well, I will. The Bomb Shop was full 
 of books on psycho-analysis, but I thought they 
 looked rather dull. Compared to the other things, 
 at any rate." 
 
 "What other things?" 
 
 "Artistic things, for instance. I got a wonder- 
 ful magazine called Blast" 
 
 "My dear Helen, it's pre-war." 
 
 She looked a little crestfallen. "I didn't know 
 you knew it," she said. 
 
 "Of course I know it. I've gone through all 
 the stages you're going through now." 
 
 She glanced at him indignantly. "Well, I don't 
 care what you say. I liked Blast. It's got lovely 
 Wyndham Lewis drawings in it, and some sculpture 
 by Gaudier-Brezka, and whole pages of names of 
 people to be blasted." 
 
 "Who, for instance?" 
 
 "I can't remember all of them. The Bishop of 
 London comes in, I know. And Father Bernard 
 Vaughan, and Rudyard Kipling, and Chopin, and 
 Oscar Wilde, and Mr. Gladstone."
 
 LAVENDER 261 
 
 "With all of which, I suppose, you cordially 
 agree?" 
 
 "Rather." 
 
 "It must be a terrible book," said Lady Sheldon, 
 with a little shiver. 
 
 "No. It's just amusing. And vigorous." She 
 looked at Ray maliciously. 
 
 "Helen, suppose we drop the 'hearty stunt' till 
 after lunch?" 
 
 "All right." 
 
 However, it was hardly evident that she did so. 
 And after lunch she insisted on playing Dome 
 Stravinsky etudes, which she had now learnt by 
 heart, and followed that up by a particularly harsh 
 study by Ravel, which would have been welcome 
 enough on some occasions, but which seemed 
 intolerably out of place on this misty afternoon of 
 January. No amount of hints would make her go, 
 and it was not till nearly tea-time that she finally 
 signified her intention to depart. 
 
 "And of course you must see me back," she said. 
 
 "Very well," said Ray. He had by now given 
 up all hope of any appreciable time with his 
 mother. 
 
 He ordered his car, and soon they were running 
 into Clarges Street. 
 
 "There you are," he said, as he helped her out. 
 
 "Won't you come in?" 
 
 He shook his head firmly. "No; it's my last
 
 262 PATCHWORK 
 
 day at home and I want to see something of 
 mother." 
 
 "Very well. Only I wish you could have come 
 in for a minute. I've got a lot of new pictures — 
 Mark Gertler, some Nash's, and a Bomberg. 
 They'd do you good." 
 
 "They'd about finish me off." 
 
 "So long then." She ran quickly up the steps, 
 and Ray sank into the car with a sigh of relief. 
 
 Never had he felt so annoyed with Helen. 
 When he had last seen her, so soon after the 
 coloured pastorale of Raven Court, she had filled 
 him with some of her own uncompromising 
 modernity, and it had been because of her that 
 he had ridden his strange bus-ride to the East End, 
 and had eaten that strange dinner with "Ailsa." 
 
 But now any such adventure seemed repulsive. 
 He felt more than ever that he wanted quiet, 
 gracious things. Even the thought of Oxford on 
 the morrow, with its vigorous, full-blooded life, 
 was unwelcome. 
 
 When he got back to Curzon Street, he went 
 upstairs once more, and gave a final look round. 
 Then he came downstairs. 
 
 What should he do? Perhaps a little music 
 would be a good thing. He went into the drawing- 
 room, and saw his mother sitting on the floor, 
 surrounded by large leather books.
 
 LAVENDER 263 
 
 "Hullo, mother. What are you doing?" 
 
 "Oh, Ray, I didn't know you'd come back." 
 
 "Yes, I had to see Helen home." 
 
 "I'm so glad she's gone." 
 
 "So am I. May I come in, or are you busy?" 
 
 "Of course. I was waiting for you." 
 
 He came in and sat by her side. It was 
 exquisitely restful to sit here, so quietly. He felt 
 a pang of remorse to think that he had allowed 
 himself to be persuaded to take Helen home on 
 his last day. His mother looked frail and lonely 
 sitting by the fire in this room of chintz and 
 lavender. 
 
 The room too seemed suddenly to challenge him 
 with the memories of forgotten things. It was 
 quite different to the rest of the house, and had been 
 furnished especially by his mother. Papered in 
 dull brown, with a frieze of old ivory, it gave, in 
 spite of its many pictures and the multitudinous 
 silver ornaments which lay on its tables, an influence 
 of fragrant detachment. There were pictures 
 everywhere on the old walls, coloured prints of 
 Darby and Joan, and water-colours, fly-blown, but 
 still sweet and delicate, which she had painted when 
 she had been a girl, at Cannes. . . . 
 
 "What are you doing?" he said again. 
 
 "Being very silly, Ray, I'm afraid, as usual," 
 she said softly, taking his hand.
 
 264 PATCHWORK 
 
 "Tired?" 
 
 "Yes. Helen tired me. I felt I wanted to 
 forget for a little bit that I was old." 
 
 "You aren't." 
 
 She shook her head. "I don't feel young any 
 more. I wish you weren't going to-morrow, Ray." 
 
 "So do I." 
 
 "Do you really?" She paused. "You know, I 
 think I shall have to go to Cannes again." 
 
 Ray looked at her in astonishment. "Why?" 
 
 "I'm afraid I should have told you before, but 
 I didn't want to. It's merely that I saw the doctor 
 yesterday . . ." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And he says I simply must go away from 
 England." 
 
 "Why, is it too cold?" 
 
 "Yes, and worrying, and generally bad for me. 
 You see, I've got such a silly inside, Ray, and 
 it behaves itself better on the Riviera." 
 
 Ray looked very sad. "I wish you hadn't to 
 go. It seems such a long way away. And I like 
 to think you're in London when I'm at Oxford, 
 so that I could get down in an hour or two if you 
 wanted me." 
 
 "Never mind. You'll come out there during 
 next holidays, and we can just sit in the sun there 
 together, can't we?" 
 
 He nodded.
 
 LAVENDER 265 
 
 "But it's your last day, so don't let's be 
 depressing now." 
 
 She bent over the photograph album. 
 
 "I don't looked depressed there, do I?" 
 
 He laughed. "Where?" 
 
 She showed him — a photograph of a young 
 girl, in bustles and flounces, seated on the stone 
 balustrade of a long terrace, shading her eyes from 
 the sun. 
 
 "Good Lord, is that you?" 
 
 "Oh, Ray, I must have changed dreadfully if 
 you can't recognise it." 
 
 "How beastly of me! Of course I recognise 
 it. It was the dress that was so funny." 
 
 "It was a very pretty dress," she said. "Pink 
 muslin. We all used to wear pink muslin then." 
 She turned over the pages. "And there I am again. 
 At Ravenna. My mother always used to go there 
 in September, and sometimes I went too. There 
 she is, poor mother. Such a wonderful woman, 
 too." 
 
 She put the book down with a sigh, and took 
 up a little paper-knife of jade and ivory from the 
 table by her side. 
 
 "All these things on this table were hers. This 
 paper-knife was given her by Daudet. Her father 
 — that was your great-grandfather — a very, very 
 old man, was terribly upset when it arrived, but 
 when he discovered Daudet was married, and that
 
 266 PATCHWORK 
 
 'Sappho' was in the public library, he didn't mind 
 so much." 
 
 She took up a minute harp, made of silver, 
 with frail gold threads for wires, and stops of 
 miniature pearls. 
 
 "And this, I remember, she bought in Paris one 
 day, when I was only about twelve years old. She 
 used to sing to the harp, you know — always stand- 
 ing very straight, with her white hands looking so 
 beautiful when she played. I do wish you'd known 
 her, Ray. She would have loved you so." 
 
 "Tell me all about her." 
 
 She put down the harp and looked into the fire. 
 
 "I really don't know what there is to tell, 
 except that she was wonderfully musical. A most 
 lovely voice — very high and sweet — oh, so high — 
 just like yours when you were at school. She 
 used to sing to me. Am I being sentimental?" 
 
 He tightened his hold on her hand, and shook 
 his head gravely. 
 
 "Old Italian songs, you know — she was half 
 Italian. All the arias — trilling so beautiful, like 
 a thrush. She was dreadfully sad when her voice 
 went. And so was I. I'm afraid I must have been 
 cruel — I used to be cross because she wouldn't 
 sing. I never understood, you see. And then she 
 died — just before you were born." 
 
 She paused and looked wistfully at the little row 
 of silver ornaments.
 
 LAVENDER 267 
 
 She picked up one. "That was an old pot- 
 pourri bowl which was given her by Rossini, when 
 she was quite small. It was always kept full of 
 flowers in Ravenna. Such wonderful flowers — so 
 red and sweet. You never saw them. I should 
 like you to go there one day. . . ." She spoke as 
 though she were dreaming. 
 
 "We'll both go." 
 
 She shook her head. "And that spoon too. 
 Do you see? That was her christening spoon. . . ." 
 She looked at him suddenly. "Ray, I'm boring 
 you?" 
 
 "Mother, don't be so silly," he laughed. 
 "Please go on, I could listen to you for ever." 
 
 She laughed, more to herself than to him. 
 
 "I always wish things could have been different." 
 
 "Different?" 
 
 "Yes . . . you see, I feel that you have had 
 such a wretched time compared to the time you 
 might have had." 
 
 "My dear mother, how perfectly absurd! 
 Why?" 
 
 "I don't know really. But you've never had 
 brothers or sisters — you've never had a lot of people 
 who love you." 
 
 "I've had you." 
 
 "Yes — but that's not enough. No, really it 
 isn't. When I was a girl we had such wonderful 
 times together. And your father too — so many
 
 268 PATCHWORK 
 
 brothers. They made it all so happy. And then, 
 everything was so much easier for young people 
 when I was a girl. We didn't have any dreadful 
 wars, with all one's friends killed, and everything 
 going wrong. I know I can't explain it properly, 
 but things were much nicer when I was a girl." 
 
 There was silence for a moment, and then she 
 got up and went to the mantelpiece. 
 
 "Do you remember, when you got back from 
 France, you told me that you thought this room 
 was far too crowded with ornaments?" 
 
 He nodded. "But I don't think so now." 
 
 "Yes, I'm afraid it still is, but somehow I can't 
 get rid of any of them. They've all got their 
 histories, you see. This little bowl of shells " 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "I picked it up one wonderful morning at Capri. 
 And so did you." 
 
 "Did I? I'm afraid I don't remember." 
 
 "No, you couldn't. You were only three — not 
 quite that, I believe. You swallowed one — cowries, 
 aren't they? — and we were all terribly afraid you 
 would be ill. But you weren't. I was so proud 
 when you got over it." 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 "And this gold powder box. Had you ever 
 noticed it? It's so beautifully done — all the fleur 
 de lys on the sides are so pretty. And those little
 
 LAVENDER 269 
 
 sapphires — one of them is rather loose. This was 
 supposed to belong to Marie Antoinette. My 
 father gave it to me when I was twenty-one. I 
 was always rather afraid of my father." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "He was very stern, and military-looking. So 
 different from mother. Not at all artistic either, 
 except in his love of flowers. When he was grow- 
 ing old he thought of nothing but flowers. He 
 had the most beautiful orchids. People used to 
 come to see them from all over England. And the 
 garden — you never saw it. Mother was totally 
 different after he died." 
 
 She paused, and then said suddenly: "Ray, do 
 you believe in spiritualism?" 
 
 He smiled. "What a funny question! I don't 
 know, why?" 
 
 "Because such a strange thing happened soon 
 after his death. Mother was still living at Stoke, 
 in Yorkshire — our old home — and she heard that a 
 wonderful medium was coming to Leeds, which was 
 about fifteen miles away. And she suddenly decided 
 that we should go to hear her. She was holding a 
 great meeting in the Town Hall. And so we went. 
 
 "I remember it all so clearly. The long drive, 
 and the bad roads, and mother wrapped up in her 
 cloak, and the foot-warmers gradually going cold. 
 The meeting had started by the time we arrived and
 
 270 PATCHWORK* 
 
 we had to go in at the back. It was all quite dark, 
 and so nobody could have seen us go in, or have 
 known where we were sitting. 
 
 "And for some time nothing very exciting 
 happened. The usual sort of experiments, bell- 
 ringing and rapping. I remember wishing that we 
 hadn't come. And then suddenly the medium — 
 that is the name, isn't it? — suddenly she stopped 
 and pointed to the back of the hall where we were 
 sitting. It was so dark that nobody could see us, 
 but I knew she was pointing to us. 
 
 "And then she described my mother, and said, 
 'I have a message for her.' And she described my 
 father absolutely distinctly, his white hair, and his 
 black eyes, and a little habit he had of clasping and 
 unclasping his hands behind his back. I remember 
 how tightly my mother held my hand when she was 
 describing him. I was afraid she would faint. And 
 then the medium said just one sentence, and it 
 seemed as though my father were speaking. 'Tell 
 her,' she said, 'that I have a beautiful garden 
 here.' " 
 
 She paused and looked at Ray. She was not 
 sure whether he had been listening. He asked her 
 to go on. 
 
 "That was all, really. I thought it very 
 wonderful." 
 
 "It was beautiful," he said.
 
 LAVENDER 
 
 271 
 
 "I know. Mother believed absolutely that he 
 had spoken. You see, the medium couldn't possibly 
 have known who we were. And it was so exactly 
 what my father would have said to comfort her. 
 She was so much happier after that, although she 
 only lived two years more. She used to live in the 
 garden, and always had it kept as he would have 
 liked it. That's why I asked you — if you believed." 
 
 "I believe that," he said. 
 
 He threw a log on the fire and watched the 
 sparks race up the chimney. His mother had never 
 told him before so many things about her youth. 
 There was a queer pathos about these sudden 
 revelations, which were quite different to the usual 
 whimsical vitality which she possessed. As she 
 talked, and as she drew memories from the little 
 things by which she was surrounded, he realised 
 how lonely her life must have been. She had no 
 one in the world but Ray. . . . 
 
 It was not till nearly eight that she finally went 
 up to dress. She found herself wondering if she 
 had been "silly" to tell Ray so much. However, 
 she was glad she had done so. She seemed so much 
 closer to him, now. 
 
 Why had she to go to Cannes? It would be so 
 dreadful to be so far away from home. Ray might 
 not want to come out there for the holidays. She 
 felt she was being selfish to go. But then the
 
 272 PATCHWORK 
 
 doctor had insisted, and she was very tired. . . . 
 However, this was his last night, and she must 
 not be depressed. There would be time enough for 
 that when he had gone. Resolutely she pulled her- 
 self together, and went downstairs with a smile on 
 her lips.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THE RETURN TO THE ABNORMAL 
 
 RAY felt unaccountably sad the next day. To 
 say good-bye to his mother seemed as hard 
 as it had been when he had been a boy going to 
 school. And as he drove away from Curzon Street 
 he felt an inexpressible desire to get out of the car 
 and run back once again to that lonely grey figure 
 he had left behind. 
 
 But as soon as he drew near his destination he 
 felt once again the dawning magic of this city which 
 had been to him so infinitely precious. He knew 
 that he was powerless to resist. Every time he 
 returned he felt as though he had never visited it 
 before. As the train steamed into the station the 
 vision of Oxford's spires broke upon him with a 
 freshness made all the more poignant by the 
 memory of the fuliginous wilderness he had for- 
 saken. Sometimes dreaming in the sun, some- 
 times dappled by rain, sometimes unnaturally white 
 under a decrescent moon — to-day a fairyland of 
 frost and spangled snow. What was it about this 
 city that troubled so exquisitely one's senses? He 
 had never felt the same about Paris, or London. 
 
 273
 
 274 PATCHWORK 
 
 There his entrances had been furtive and prosaic — 
 poetry had been reserved for the departure. He 
 wondered if his departure from Oxford would be 
 like that. He had never thought of it before and 
 the thought was unwelcome. It would need a very 
 magnificent exit, a very superb gesture, unless it 
 were most lamentably to fall short of his present 
 way of living. 
 
 It was snowing. Like white petals the flakes 
 glided through the open window of his hansom cab. 
 Here was all Oxford before him — more beautiful 
 than even he had imagined. The horse's hoofs 
 struck noiselessly against the thick carpet, and in 
 this high and swift carriage one seemed to lose 
 contact with earth altogether. They passed Wor- 
 cester, its trees loaded, its scabrous walls softened 
 and made white. Even Beaumont Street had about 
 it an unwonted nobility, like a colonnade of pale 
 marble. 
 
 How bitter the wind was, and how pricelessly 
 vigorous! There was the Martyrs' Memorial — it 
 was high time that he decorated it, as he had 
 promised David he would, with a bowler hat. He 
 caught sight of the faces of Philip Arden and young 
 Ryerson, wandering past St. John's, hatless in spite 
 of the cold, and they waved him a cheery welcome. 
 From Tugly's high rooms in Balliol came the glow 
 of red-shaded lights, which stained to a delicate
 
 RETURN TO THE ABNORMAL 275 
 
 pink the snow which lay crusted on the ledge. He 
 must go and see him soon. What a lot there would 
 be to do ! There was Whitely, waving to him under 
 an umbrella, and a crowd of undergraduates going 
 into the Old Oak tea-rooms, none of whom he 
 knew, but whom he saluted out of sheer exuberance 
 of spirit. There was the porter in Balliol lodge, 
 bowing solemnly from behind a carmine nose — 
 Trinity, a marvellous vision of silver filigree — 
 BlackwelPs, full of the most exciting-looking books. 
 And here was 95, The Broad. . . . 
 
 Mrs. Griffiths was always glad to see him 
 although he was in the habit of playing the piano 
 after midnight. 
 
 "Well, Mr. Sheldon, I'm sure it's very nice to 
 see you again," she said, advancing from the 
 kitchen. 
 
 They went upstairs. 
 
 "I've put you in a new bedroom, Mr. Sheldon, 
 nearer your sitting-room. I thought it would be 
 more cosy-like." 
 
 It was. A charming little room, hung with 
 religious prints. Ordinarily Ray would have torn 
 these down, but he decided that it would hurt his 
 landlady's feelings. Besides, they were not so 
 aggressive as they might have been. 
 
 "I've lit the fire in your sitting-room. Would 
 you like some tea?" 
 
 "Thanks very much. I should."
 
 276 PATCHWORK 
 
 After he had drunk some tea, so warm in this 
 wilderness of cold, he went to the window and 
 looked out. He wondered for a moment how his 
 mother was faring. How she would have loved all 
 this beauty! The coming of night seemed to have 
 been unnaturally delayed by the brilliant cloak of 
 snow which lay over the whole city. The Shel- 
 donian reflected the last rays of light, and the stone 
 emperors glistened in a murky radiance. The 
 noise of footsteps was almost entirely muffled, 
 except in a patch by a rain-spout where the snow 
 had melted away. And still the flakes came down, 
 and the grey sky was full of silver, curling vapours. 
 
 For a moment he felt as though life had stopped. 
 Looking out of this window he had a vivid realisa- 
 tion of himself, his actual surroundings, the joy of 
 them, which rarely comes till one has ceased to live 
 in them. The feeling that he had experienced in 
 the vac, that although he was young, he did not 
 appreciate his youth, was now, suddenly, completely 
 reversed. He appreciated everything. He ap- 
 preciated himself as though he had stepped outside 
 his own body, and he had a vision of his figure 
 by the window, black against the panes and the 
 fluttering grey waste beyond, a figure of youth, to 
 whom all desires were known and from whom no 
 secrets were hid. And the ecstasy was so great 
 that when after a few seconds it had passed, he was 
 almost glad that it had been transient. He knew
 
 RETURN TO THE ABNORMAL 277 
 
 that never while he was in Oxford would he under- 
 stand Oxford. He knew that never while he was 
 living would he understand life. 
 
 The next day the snow had ceased, and though 
 all the roofs were white and virgin the roads were 
 soiled and churned with mud. Ray felt that he 
 must make up his mind definitely as to how this 
 term was to be spent. Otherwise he knew that he 
 would become immersed in the social side of Oxford 
 life, and would fail to accomplish anything. How- 
 ever, he could not say definitely what he would do 
 till he had looked round. 
 
 In any case, there would be no great need to 
 work. He negotiated without difficulty the "col- 
 lecer" with which it was the habit of the Balliol 
 authorities terminally to test the diligence of their 
 undergraduates. Indeed, Tugly, when Ray came 
 to have his papers looked over, expressed surprise 
 that he should have done so well. 
 
 "I can't think when you get your work done," 
 he said. "You really seem to have quite a decent 
 knowledge of the nineteenth century." 
 
 "I did a good deal in the vac." 
 
 "You must have done." Tugly turned over his 
 papers. "Really, they're quite sound." 
 
 "What a beastly word!" 
 
 Tugly laughed. "I should have thought you'd 
 have been pleased to be called sound for once," he 
 said.
 
 2 7 8 PATCHWORK 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't know. It doesn't seem to be the 
 usual adjective for you." He paused. "But what 
 are you going to do this term?" 
 
 They discussed Ray's work. 
 
 "Not too much, Tugly." 
 
 "Why? I don't think 1789 to 1815 is too much 
 for one term if you don't do anything else." 
 
 "But I shall be doing a great deal else." 
 
 "What, for instance?" 
 
 "The Union, for one thing." 
 
 "Why, are you going to try for the Presidency?" 
 
 Ray nodded. 
 
 "Oh, I didn't know that, Well, I hope you 
 get it. Only as your tutor it's my moral duty to see 
 you do your work." 
 
 During the next week Ray allowed himself to 
 drift. He had a last letter from his mother, who 
 was about to depart for the Riviera, and he keenly 
 wished he might have accompanied her. But as he 
 was in Oxford, it was pleasant to know that he could 
 do as he liked, and to be free from the feeling that 
 he ought at every moment to be editing some paper, 
 or making speeches to some club. 
 
 For the moment he was inclined to rest on his 
 laurels. 
 
 For there could be no doubt about it, Oxford was 
 changing. People were becoming more tolerant.
 
 RETURN TO THE ABNORMAL 279 
 
 It was possible to wear corduroy trousers without 
 being considered a moral degenerate. It was pos- 
 sible to make epigrams at the Union without being 
 regarded as pro-German. It was possible to ask 
 people to breakfast at half-past ten and not be 
 thought a poseur. One could even forego the 
 discomfort of a cold bath in the morning, and soak 
 luxuriously in more plentiful hot water than had 
 been either physically possible or ethically approved 
 in the rude days of a year ago. 
 
 It would have been hardly human if Ray, as 
 he contemplated the changing spectacle of Oxford 
 life, did not feel that he himself had done far more 
 than anybody else to change it. Every week the 
 'Varsity papers splashed with blue and yellow the 
 restless streets, and it seemed that even in The his 
 the old spirit was returning. The political notes 
 were no longer written in that spirit of stodgy 
 conservatism which had characterised them imme- 
 diately the paper had gone out of his hands. In- 
 stead there was a renewed attempt at the delicate 
 satire which he had achieved so well. A German 
 was referred to as a German and not as a Hun, and 
 a spade was happily seldom given its real name. 
 The musical reports were no longer written with a 
 sublime ignorance of any works but those of Bach, 
 while from the criticisms of the theatre such phrases 
 as "tuneful music" and "sprightly dancing" 
 gradually faded away until they were mercifully lost
 
 2 8o PATCHWORK 
 
 in the dark recesses of the Holywell Press. Even 
 in the athletic world there were signs of regenera- 
 tion. Blues were becoming less of a Prussian 
 blue and were assuming once more the old Oxford 
 colour. And there was talk of reviving the 
 Bullingdon. 
 
 Ray felt that it was not for nothing that he had 
 worked, and was glad to think that he might now 
 go his own way without any motive of propaganda. 
 Crusades, though picturesque, were apt to be tiring. 
 However, there was one activity which he was 
 determined not to relax — the Union. Indeed as 
 the term went by he was almost surprised to find 
 how keen he was becoming to realise his ambition 
 in this direction. The Union seemed to give to 
 his career a unity which, while it was not aggressive, 
 yet served to place in a certain pleasurable per- 
 spective the tangled and often elusive background 
 against which he had been moving. He began to 
 look forward to Thursday nights more than any 
 other night in the week. Even when he did not 
 himself take part in the debate, which was seldom, 
 it was delightful to sit in the secretary's chair, to 
 read in a sonorous voice the "minutes" which he 
 had written the week before, and to feel that he 
 was in the centre of so much vigorous life. 
 
 Besides, the Union seemed to open up a stratum 
 of Oxford society which he had hitherto left almost 
 untouched. He had associated with the "Union
 
 RETURN TO THE ABNORMAL 281 
 
 crowd" as a worker, but he had never known them 
 as friends. He had gone for friendship to quite 
 different sets. For instance, there was the "House" 
 set, about twenty young men with ample incomes, 
 who spent their time in going from dinner-party to 
 dinner-party, always perfectly dressed and always 
 discussing one another. When they needed exercise 
 they would ride, and when they needed intellectual 
 activity they played bridge. They were nearly all 
 Etonians, and had nearly all been with Ray in the 
 Brigade, and he found them amusing in the same 
 way that he found London amusing. In fact, they 
 seemed to bring the atmosphere of London most 
 unmistakably into their own very luxurious sitting- 
 rooms. Their mantelpieces were always crowded 
 with the invitation cards of London hostesses, and 
 their toilet requisites were constantly replenished 
 from Bond Street. 
 
 And then again there was the athletic crowd, 
 whom, on the whole, he found more satisfying. 
 Ray occasionally rowed himself, but he was so 
 extraordinarily bad, and caught crabs with such 
 unhesitating precision, that he gave up the attempt, 
 and confined himself to meeting the rowing Blues 
 at dinner, where, as he said, they made such a 
 charming colour scheme, with their pink ties and 
 their pinker faces. He always took a good deal of 
 exercise himself, either by going for long solitary 
 "sweats" over Boar's Hill, or by hiring an execrable
 
 282 PATCHWORK 
 
 mare from "Walley's" and clattering wildly out 
 in the direction of Abingdon. He never rode 
 alone, in case anything went wrong, which it nearly 
 invariably did. However, he took his falls cheer- 
 fully, and so did his companions. Indeed the 
 "athletic crowd," with the exception of people 
 like Berry and his associates, were extraordinarily 
 tolerant. They did not endeavour to impose their 
 own opinions on Ray, and consequently he was 
 scrupulous that he should not in any way adopt 
 the despicable attitude of the intellectual sneering 
 at the athlete. Indeed, he was inclined rather to 
 envy them. For he was an extraordinarily healthy 
 person, and with all his love of luxury he was 
 thoroughly unhappy if he did not spend a good 
 deal of his time under the open sky, and he some- 
 times found himself wishing that he could feel that 
 all the cares of life were concentrated in a football 
 match, and that one could mount to heaven at the 
 end of a pink tie. 
 
 The "Union crowd," however, were quite 
 different. Of course it was far larger than anything 
 else in Oxford, and indeed seemed to be a little 
 university of its own. Here one met the most 
 astonishing people — there were over sixteen hundred 
 of them, and they were all quite determined to be 
 President. Ferocious Labour men, cynical Tories, 
 enlarged and restored by generous dinners at the 
 Conservative Club, and every description of Liberal.
 
 RETURN TO THE ABNORMAL 283 
 
 Indeed, Liberalism seemed to be a singularly elastic 
 faith, ranging from the coloured and decorative 
 creed of a Barroni to the passionate idealism of a 
 Victor Eyre, a charming Welsh boy whom Ray had 
 met at St. John's. Victor Eyre had encouraged 
 Ray, more than any one else, to speak. He had 
 come up to him at the end of his first speech, and 
 had thanked him .with such a profusion of Celtic 
 eloquence, that Ray had felt, for the moment, em- 
 barrassed. He was, however, particularly pleased, 
 because his congratulator proved to be himself a 
 brilliant speaker, and had informed him, with 
 courteous naivete, that he owed his eloquence more 
 to Ray's example than anything else. 
 
 Politics, indeed, which to Ray had been merely a 
 means of making his own life more vivid, seemed for 
 many people at Oxford the one thing worth thinking 
 about. 
 
 "Do you think you're doing the right thing by 
 being a Liberal?" said Whitely to him one day. 
 
 "How do you mean, the right thing?" replied 
 Ray, rather indignantly. "I'm a Liberal as regards 
 industry, Ireland, India, finance, the League 
 of . . ." 
 
 Whitely interrupted. "I don't mean that," he 
 said. "I mean as regards the Union. The Con- 
 servative Club's pretty big now, and they're much 
 better organised than the Star." 
 
 "I know. I helped them to get going."
 
 284 PATCHWORK 
 
 "What?" Whitely looked at him in astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 "I don't see why I shouldn't. I|m much more 
 interested in Oxford, as a whole, than in the Star 
 Club." 
 
 "How do you mean?" 
 
 "Well, the more clubs there are, and the more 
 people discuss things, the more likely we are to get 
 back to some sort of pre-war standard." 
 
 "You'll never make a politician." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Well, you ought to be pulling the strings all 
 the time." 
 
 "I am. But I pull them all at the same time. 
 And the result is charming." 
 
 He wondered, vaguely, if there was any truth 
 in what Whitely said. Was he right to be a 
 Liberal, or would he offend the voters? 
 
 He cursed himself as soon as this question 
 entered his mind. Apart from the fact that he 
 knew that he could never, with any conviction, 
 be anything but a Liberal, it would be contemptible 
 to desert a faith merely because it was down. 
 Besides, apart from all other considerations, 
 Liberalism in the university was a very living 
 creed. He mentally reviewed the result of some 
 of the past Union debates, which were a pretty 
 fair index to the way the average undergraduate 
 was thinking. During the last few months they
 
 RETURN TO THE ABNORMAL 285 
 
 had voted by an overwhelming majority that the 
 Peace Treaty was an economic disaster to Europe. 
 They had "deplored" — (what a delightful word 
 that was!) — the foreign policy of the Government, 
 and had demanded the substitution for it of the 
 League of Nations. They had carried a vote in 
 favour of a capital levy, they had demanded more 
 self-government for India, and Dominion Home 
 Rule for Ireland. Oh yes, Liberalism was all right. 
 The one conspicuous occasion when the Union had 
 approved of a reactionary motion was on the ques- 
 tion of divorce. But that, after all, had been due, 
 not to reasoning, but to Mr. G. K. Chesterton, 
 whose delightful but irrelevant arguments persuaded 
 a hilarious House to decide joyfully that marriages 
 of lunatics and drunkards must be maintained — 
 in order that the integrity of. the British Empire 
 might remain unimpaired. 
 
 There were times when Ray felt, like Mazzini, 
 that politics were in themselves a form of poetry. 
 He had done so much at Oxford. What was to 
 stop him now? And afterwards?
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 IMPROMPTU 
 
 64 TWISH term didn't go so quickly," said Ray 
 
 X to Steele one afternoon towards the middle 
 of March. 
 
 "I know. These blasted elections are due in 
 about a week." 
 
 "I wasn't thinking so much of them. I was 
 just wishing that one could have more time for all 
 the things there are to do." 
 
 "Lucky brute to have so much energy," muttered 
 Steele. 
 
 Ray laughed. Certainly he had been energetic 
 enough during the last few weeks. He had made 
 three speeches at the Union, one of which had been 
 a failure, and the other two brilliant successes. He 
 had just managed not to break his collar-bone by 
 falling off his horse on to a railway line, and had 
 played a series of Scriabin etudes at a Balliol concert 
 the next night with his head bound up in a very 
 becoming bandage. He had become quite unpar- 
 donably drunk at the Grid, and had been fined an 
 extra guinea by the proctor for simulating well-bred 
 ignorance of the location of Hertford College. He 
 
 286
 
 IMPROMPTU 287 
 
 had assisted in a raid on Trinity, and had nearly 
 been permanently disabled by falling masonry. 
 
 "You see," he said, "I'm becoming most 
 wonderfully Philistine. I think it's always so con- 
 soling to think that David, and not the Philistine, 
 had the jawbone of an ass. As a matter of fact, 
 though, it's not Philistinism. It's just animal 
 spirits. If I'd been a Philistine I should have been 
 very pleased to have done anything so hearty as to 
 fall over a railway bridge, and should have probably 
 longed for a train to come along and complete the 
 business. As it was, I was pleased, but merely 
 because my head was bloodly — how nice to be able 
 to use the word with a clear conscience! — and be- 
 cause I'd discovered in France that bandages were 
 rather becoming." 
 
 Steele looked at him curiously. Ray had never 
 mentioned France to him before. It was a promis- 
 ing sign that he found himself able to talk of it 
 now. 
 
 "Talking of France . . ." he said. 
 
 Ray frowned. "Don't," he said. "Sorry. I 
 started it. My fault. But there are so many much 
 nicer things to talk about. Panton, for instance." 
 
 Panton was Ray's opponent for the Presidency 
 of the Union. 
 
 "Has he definitely decided to stand against you?" 
 
 "Definitely and definitively. In fact, I believe 
 nothing so definite was ever seen in Oxford. I
 
 288 PATCHWORK 
 
 imagine he stood in the middle of the Conservative 
 Club and announced the fact to all the blue-nosed 
 Tories in a bunch. I suppose I oughn't to speak 
 disrespectfully of my opponents, but still . . ." 
 
 "He's very sound, you know," said Steele. 
 
 "I hate sound people. Panton is far too sound. 
 One feels he knows the time that every train leaves 
 for anywhere, and none of the reasons for taking 
 them. Nobody has any business to be sound till 
 they're over fifty. Then nobody bothers what they 
 are." 
 
 "How old is he, by the way?" 
 
 "He must be at least thirty. And this is the 
 third time he's stood for the Presidency. And he's 
 married. Personally I think it's positively indecent. 
 If he gets in I shall spread a rumour that his elec- 
 tion was entirely due to the votes of his children, 
 who increase at the most breathless speed." 
 
 Steele laughed. "You are incorrigible, you know. 
 Yesterday you were fearfully depressed, to-day 
 you're fearfully hearty, to-morrow you'll probably 
 be founding another club." 
 
 Ray lay down in his chair and stretched out his 
 legs. "I like being hearty," he said. "I like . . ." 
 
 "For God's sake don't start that," said Steele, 
 throwing a cushion at him. 
 
 Ray sighed and went to the piano. "Suppose I 
 play an Oxford impromptu?" he said. 
 
 "Fire away."
 
 IMPROMPTU 289 
 
 Ray put down the pedal. "There's something 
 fearfully stimulating about putting down the pedal. 
 I suppose it's the sort of feeling a professional 
 motorist — I can't think of the right word — gets 
 when he pulls out the clutch. So wonderful. All 
 sorts of echoing noises inside. And then every 
 note sounds so swollen and important. Listen. 
 That's A flat. We'll call it Big Tom booming. 
 Big Tom always booms in A flat when it's behaving 
 "itself. What's the time? Five! Damn! It'll 
 have to be in five-four time. Never mind. 
 Tschaikowsky wrote a most lovely movement in 
 the Pathetic Symphony in five-four time." 
 
 He played for a few minutes, and explained his 
 improvisation as he went along. "You know, this 
 is really an extraordinarily good way of working off 
 one's surplus emotions. This fat, greasy tune is 
 Panton making a speech. The basis of it is 'Lead 
 thou me on,' and after that, 'I didn't want to do 
 it.' No — that's horrible. I shall do myself making 
 a speech instead." 
 
 He played a recitative in octaves with his right 
 hand. "That's the argument, you see. Now come 
 the epigrams." A brilliant shower of arpeggios 
 sparkled momentarily in the treble. 
 
 "And now the applause," suggested Steele. 
 
 A magnificent chorale echoed through the room, 
 and died away. 
 
 "Of course," said Ray, "I am a genius."
 
 290 PATCHWORK 
 
 "I never said you weren't," laughed Steele. 
 
 "If you had done, it would have meant some- 
 thing else. Anyway, I'm going on playing. What 
 shall I play?" 
 
 "I'm afraid it's no use asking me." 
 
 "I know. Oxford in general. No, that's too 
 difficult. We might start with the Isis though. 
 Listen — all that running about in the bass is the 
 river — rushing very strong. It never does, but 
 that doesn't matter. And now the chiming of 
 bells. . . ." 
 
 Against the turbulent bass he played a little 
 ripple of silver sixths, constantly repeated and con- 
 stantly varied. Then a pause: "This is fearfully 
 dramatic," whispered Ray. "It's our entry into 
 Oxford." 
 
 He played a tiny, halting tune in the bass, and 
 all the time there was the silver echo of bells in 
 the treble. Gradually the volume of sound in- 
 creased, melodies flitted irregularly and brilliantly 
 across the main theme, and died away, and finally 
 the little tune which had walked so apologetically 
 across the black notes at the bottom of the piano 
 burst into a vast chorus, into which every ounce 
 of his energy seemed to be poured. 
 
 He stopped, and shut the piano with a bang. 
 
 "Good Lord!" said Steele. 
 
 Ray looked at him and laughed. "That's really 
 much the best thing you could have said."
 
 IMPROMPTU 291 
 
 "It was quite extraordinary. Aren't you fear- 
 fully tired?" 
 
 "Certainly not. I'm never tired when I've done 
 something decent. It's when I've done nothing that 
 I'm tired." He paused. "As a matter of fact, 
 though, I suppose that was nothing really. Nothing 
 permanent. Just a wonderful improvisation. 
 That's what my whole life is — an improvisation." 
 
 "Some improvisations are greater than the other 
 thing," said Steele. 
 
 "No, they aren't. And for the simple reason 
 that they're entirely selfish." 
 
 "All art is selfish." 
 
 "Directly, yes. No artist thinks of anything 
 but himself when he's creating. But if he creates 
 something permanent the result is the same — he 
 benefits the whole world." 
 
 Steele nodded. "D'you think either of us will 
 ever benefit the whole world?" he said, after a 
 pause. 
 
 "We shall either benefit the whole world or we 
 shan't benefit anybody. I should hate to be any- 
 thing but international. I feel that England, or 
 Europe, or Asia, is much too small a public." 
 
 Steele laughed. "And yet you speak to a few 
 hundreds at the Union." 
 
 "Don't be sarcastic. Besides, that's quite dif- 
 ferent. We're only infants at present." 
 
 "Well, when are you going to start?"
 
 292 PATCHWORK 
 
 Ray looked out of the window. "I don't know. 
 I'm afraid the next year or so is going to be rather 
 difficult. By the way, d'you think I shall get this 
 Union thing?" 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 "No, but really, do you?" 
 
 "Yes, I do." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Well, you're much the best speaker of any 
 of us, and you're extremely popular and all that 
 sort of thing. The only thing I can think of in 
 favour of the other chap is that he's stood twice 
 before, and people are apt to vote for a man just 
 out of pity. And also he's got the official nomina- 
 tion, since he's senior to you, so that means his 
 name goes before yours on the ballot paper." 
 
 "I see." 
 
 "If anything did go wrong, would you stand 
 again?" 
 
 "I don't know. It seems rather bathos, 
 doesn't it?" 
 
 "Yes. But still, I should, if I were you." 
 
 "Anyway, let's hope that there won't be any 
 need. And in any case, I'm happy enough now." 
 
 Indeed, so happy was he, and so immersed in 
 innumerable activities, that it was not without a 
 shock that he saw a letter from his mother the next
 
 IMPROMPTU 293 
 
 morning, decorated with the French stamp. He 
 had almost forgotten that she was in France at all. 
 With a pang of remorse, he opened it. 
 
 "Villa Pontilly, Cannes. 
 
 "14.3.20. 
 "Dearest Ray, 
 
 "How are you now? I do hope you are well. 
 It seems so dreadful to be so far away, and I'm 
 afraid I was very depressing on the last day. 
 Please forgive me. 
 
 "It is very beautiful down here — so warm, and 
 so many flowers. Even the wisteria is out under 
 my window, and by lunch-time it is really quite 
 overpowering — the scent, I mean. The house is 
 absolutely as I left it, three years ago. Even some 
 of the cigarettes which you smoked when you came 
 down on leave — do you remember? — are still in 
 their little cases. And Maria seems so glad to see 
 me — she and Tonio came running down the drive 
 and both of them wept a great deal, and spoke 
 French-Italian so quickly that I could think of 
 nothing to say at all in return, and wept too. I 
 think it was so nice of them. 
 
 "I tried to play the piano yesterday, but it was 
 dreadfully out of tune, so I sent into Cannes for 
 a man to tune it, and he has been making noises all 
 day, and is now playing the Marseillaise, so I feel I 
 ought to stand up. I want to have everything as 
 you would like it when you come here.
 
 294 PATCHWORK 
 
 "You will be surprised to hear that I have asked 
 Helen to come down and stay. She ought to arrive 
 the day after to-morrow. I will send her away 
 before you come back, because I know she irritates 
 you so. But with me, she always behaves so dif- 
 ferently, and I am rather sorry for her. We seem 
 to be the only relations she has in the world. Be- 
 sides, from my own quite selfish point of view it 
 , is rather nice to have some one to talk to apart from 
 Maria and Tonio. And the people round here seem 
 dreadfully dull. 
 
 "I saw M. Montfort yesterday — the doctor, you 
 know — and he says that I am looking much better, 
 but that I was very wise to come out here. 
 
 "I won't bother you with any more. All my 
 love for ever and ever. 
 
 "Mother. 
 
 "P.S. — I do hope you will win your Union 
 election." 
 
 Ray smiled as he read this quaint epistle. He 
 hoped sincerely that she was not too lonely. By 
 the same post came a letter from Helen, who had 
 evidently already arrived at Cannes. It was very 
 brief. 
 
 "Dear Ray, 
 
 "I have only just come here, so haven't time 
 for a long letter. 
 
 "I just want to remind you about the Gladstonian 
 collars. I'm sure they wouldn't suit you.
 
 IMPROMPTU 295 
 
 "Mother seems very happy, but I think she looks 
 rather washed out. The doctor thinks so too. 
 However, I'll let you know more in future. Do 
 write a lot and cheer her up. 
 
 "Helen." 
 
 Ray frowned and threw the letter into the waste- 
 paper basket. Why did Helen always irritate him 
 so? And he felt sure that she was wrong about 
 his mother. She had said that the doctor thought 
 she was looking very well, and he would certainly 
 take her word against Helen's. 
 
 However, he sat down and wrote a long letter 
 saying that if he was wanted he could always come 
 down to Cannes at a day's notice, and his conscience 
 was perceptibly soothed. 
 
 Meanwhile life was horribly amusing, and so 
 busy was he in preparing for the final campaign 
 that he had little time for reflection. There were 
 dozens of people to ask to dinner, dozens of speeches 
 to make, including his final speech at the Union. 
 He was living, living at top speed, and that was all 
 that seemed to matter.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 CLIMAX 
 
 POLLING at the Union was on Saturday and 
 Monday, and during the entire week-end the 
 candidates for election tirelessly traversed Oxford 
 with fixed smiles on their faces for all and sundry. 
 Never before had they evinced such amiability, nor 
 such generosity in standing drinks. Panton was to 
 be seen in every variety of costume at all hours of 
 the day and night, dressed to appeal to the audience 
 he desired to captivate. Tommy Quill traversed 
 Beaumont Street with hordes of Indians, dropping 
 the subtlest of hints in the most honeyed tones. 
 Whitely relaxed the usual grim cast of his features 
 and smiled a smile which, though undoubtedly 
 powerful and apparently permanent, caused the 
 facetious to inquire if he had stepped in something. 
 Barroni showered epigrams on every one with whom 
 he came in contact, giving his views as to why 
 certain people should be elected and giving them 
 with such brilliance that his listeners immediately 
 went and voted for some one else. 
 
 Ray would have found it delightful to hurl 
 himself into the thick of the fight, and intrigue 
 
 296
 
 CLIMAX 297 
 
 with the best of them, but apart from the fact that 
 it was rather dangerous, since canvassing was 
 strictly illegal, he preferred to allow things to take 
 their own course. If he was elected, he would have 
 hated to feel that he had got in by any system of 
 intrigue. Besides, his speech at the Union last 
 Thursday had been so great a success that he felt 
 intrigue was not necessary. And in any case it was 
 amusing to watch the contest as a spectator. 
 
 Meanwhile, during this week-end it was quite 
 impossible to think of doing any work. He began 
 to wish the whole thing was over. It seemed 
 almost impossible even to eat. By the time that 
 Monday morning came he was wandering round his 
 room, picking up books and putting them down 
 again, playing a few chords on the piano and 
 stopping, pouring out whiskey and throwing it away. 
 Finally he found that the only thing to do was to 
 stare out of the window at the crowds in the street 
 below. It was a great relief when Steele came in 
 with Philip Arden. 
 
 "Well, Ray, we've been canvassing," said Philip, 
 throwing down his coat. 
 
 "Have you really? How are things going?" 
 
 "Oh, you're both in all right." 
 
 Ray looked at him eagerly. "Do you really think 
 so?" 
 
 "Of course I do. Otherwise I shouldn't be 
 here."
 
 298 PATCHWORK 
 
 He sat down in front of the fire, and put his 
 feet on the mantelpiece. "Oh Lord, it has been 
 funny." 
 
 "Funny?" 
 
 "Rather." 
 
 "You wouldn't think it was so funny if you were 
 one of the candidates/' said Steele. 
 
 "Sorry. Suppose I shouldn't. But I had a 
 damned amusing time after breakfast." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "Well, I was sitting in my rooms, and an 
 enormous deputation arrived." 
 
 "What sort of deputation?" 
 
 "Oh, a lot of impossible bounders from Magdalen 
 and other out-of-the-way places." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "And they were all canvassing, canvassing like 
 hell." 
 
 "Who for?" 
 
 "The other fellow, of course." 
 
 Ray sighed. "This is too awful." 
 
 "Wait a minute, though. They told me the 
 various reasons I should vote for Panton, and I 
 listened very attentively, and kept them there about 
 an hour,, or nearly that, at any rate. And then in 
 the end I said certainly I should vote for Panton if I 
 had a vote. But unfortunately I wasn't a member 
 of the Union."
 
 CLIMAX 299 
 
 He lay back and roared with laughter, and Ray 
 could not help joining in. 
 
 "And the silly part of the whole thing," said 
 Philip, lighting his pipe, "is that I'm not. And 
 consequently I can't vote for you." 
 
 "Never mind, old thing. You would if you 
 could." Ray looked at him affectionately. 
 
 "Yes, I would. And anyway, I've got simply 
 hundreds of people in Balliol to vote. Oh, you'll be 
 all right. And Steele too. I shouldn't worry. 
 What are you doing for the rest of the day?" 
 
 "God knows." 
 
 "Blasphemous child." 
 
 "It isn't blasphemous to attribute omniscience to 
 the deity." 
 
 Philip smiled. "Have it your own way," he 
 said. "Only if I were you I should get away from 
 all this, and go and trot round Boar's Hill." 
 
 Ray looked out of the window. 
 
 "It'll probably pour with rain before long." 
 
 "Never mind. It'll do you good." 
 
 Ray paused. "What d'you say, Steele?" 
 
 "It might be rather a good idea. Anyway, I'm 
 sick of this waiting business." 
 
 "Well, you'd better lunch with me here first, and 
 Philip too." 
 
 "Thanks awfully." 
 
 He rang the bell and ordered lunch. There was
 
 3 oo PATCHWORK 
 
 something particularly gratifying about food on this 
 occasion. 
 
 "I think I shall write an essay one day, on food 
 as a curer of souls." 
 
 "Yes, do," said Philip, with his mouth full. 
 
 "It shall be called 'Gastronomy versus Astron- 
 omy,' and it shall be all about the milky way. One 
 might make some rather good jokes about it — for 
 instance, soles stewed in milk versus souls immersed 
 in the milky way." 
 
 He talked at random, ridiculous and child-like 
 prattle. He felt capable of nothing else just then. 
 Steele was practically silent. 
 
 Suddenly he was struck with an idea. 
 
 "I say," he said to Steele. "Supposing we get 
 in, let's have a simply colossal dinner here to-mor- 
 row." 
 
 "Now you're talking," said Philip. 
 
 Steele frowned. "And supposing we don't?" 
 
 "Have a still more colossal one." 
 
 Steele laughed. "Yes, it would be rather an 
 idea." 
 
 "It certainly would," said Ray. "I've got a lot 
 of pink champagne, and it's got to be drunk soon. 
 Look here, Philip, you might arrange it for us. 
 Will you?" 
 
 "All right." 
 
 "Thanks most awfully. Well, who had we bet- 
 ter have?"
 
 CLIMAX 301 
 
 They ran through a list of names and finally Ray 
 wrote down about a dozen on a slip of paper. 
 
 "They probably won't all be able to come, but 
 we can always get some one else. And whatever 
 happens, it ought to be rather amusing. To-mor- 
 row would be most horribly flat without something 
 to wake us up." 
 
 "I know." 
 
 Philip finished his coffee and got up to go. 
 
 "By the way," he said, "I suppose you've voted 
 yourself?" 
 
 "Good Lord, no," replied Ray. "I didn't know 
 you could. Have you?" He turned to Steele. 
 
 "Rather." 
 
 "What a fool I am! I'd better go now. And 
 then we can get a taxi to Boar's Hill." 
 
 They went out into Broad Street. It was about 
 half-past two, and somehow the roads seemed 
 strangely quiet. The usual athletes flashed by in 
 blue and pink, and there was already a sprinkling 
 of undergraduates in the bookshops, but over the 
 whole city there had desended a curious quiescence. 
 Even the Union seemed deserted except for a little 
 group of voters. Ray went in and registered his 
 vote, and glanced furtively at two diminutive fresh- 
 men who were putting their mark on the folded slip 
 of paper. One voted for Panton, the other for 
 himself. He sighed and gave the paper to the in- 
 vigilator.
 
 3 02 PATCHWORK 
 
 As they came out they caught sight of Panton 
 just entering the Union. Ray fled precipitously 
 into the street. 
 
 "And now let's get a taxi." 
 
 Philip laughed. "I thought you were going for 
 a walk." 
 
 "We are. But I don't want to have to trudge 
 miles through a wretched suburb and be tired out 
 before I get to Boar's Hill. Come on. . . ." 
 
 "Well, I'll say good-bye for the present, and get 
 on with the good work." 
 
 "All right. And a thousand thanks for all 
 you've done. You can have an extra bottle of 
 pink champagne to-morrow." 
 
 "Cheerio." 
 
 As the car, which was a very old and remarkably 
 uncomfortable Ford, clattered out of the narrow 
 streets, Ray lay back and closed his eyes. 
 
 "Tired?" 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 "Yes, I am rather." 
 
 The cold wind blew on his hot forehead. It was 
 wonderfully refreshing. He felt it would be de- 
 lightful to travel like this for ever, always through 
 bare and winding lanes, with an eternal patchwork 
 of meadows moving slowly and grandly by. 
 
 "I really seem suddenly to have lost all interest 
 in the thing," said Steele, and he too closed his 
 eyes.
 
 CLIMAX 303 
 
 "I know. So do I." Ray raised himself slightly. 
 "My God, though, I haven't lost interest in that." 
 He turned to Steele. "Do look a minute." 
 
 They were reaching the crest of the hill, and all 
 the county lay before them. Berkshire stretched 
 away to the left, a medley of hills and meadows, 
 unnaturally distinct under an indigo sky. And be- 
 low, in the valley, was Oxford. 
 
 Steele turned away. "I don't want to think of 
 Oxford just now," he said. 
 
 They got out and watched the car spin slowly 
 down the hill. 
 
 "I feel as I were never going to see Oxford 
 again," said Steele, as they went on their way. 
 
 "I know. That's the effect nature always has 
 on me." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 Ray swung his stick in the air and caught it 
 again. "Oh, I don't know. A sort of proud de- 
 tachment from everything." 
 
 Steele nodded. "Somehow the idea of the Union 
 just now seems incredibly remote." 
 
 "Incredibly." 
 
 "And absurdly unimportant." 
 
 "Yes. But it isn't because it's the Union. It's 
 merely because it happens to be an ordinary human 
 activity. It would be exactly the same if you were 
 standing — well, for the Presidency of the United 
 States. As soon as you get out under the open sky,
 
 3 o 4 PATCHWORK 
 
 with big clouds above you, and hills and grass, and 
 trees, and things like that — well, I mean, there's 
 nothing to do but laugh." 
 
 Steele smiled. 
 
 Ray went on. The rising wind seemed to give 
 him new energy. They were now walking by the 
 side of a wood and he had to raise his voice to make 
 himself heard above the clamour of the branches. 
 
 "Nature," he said, "takes away all my ambition. 
 And it takes it away because it shows me, really, 
 that I, and anybody else, is far too great for any 
 ambition to be worth while. Under the sky, what 
 does anything matter? What can you do? Or 
 rather, what can't you do? Just think, now, of 
 arguing and making speeches. Think of all the 
 absurd intrigue — think of Panton. What is Pan- 
 ton? A tiny absurd little shadow, about an inch 
 of that cloud over there. . . ." 
 
 "Which, by the way, is about to descend on our 
 heads in the shape of rain," added Steele. 
 
 "Never mind. Let it come, it'll do us good. 
 We want rain — lots of rain. Why didn't I come 
 out here before? I don't care what happens now. 
 What is Oxford? Dreams — all dreams! Damn! 
 Tell me to stop sentimentalising or I shall get wet." 
 
 They took refuge in the entrance to a little empty 
 hut that the shepherds had once lived in. What a 
 storm it was! Great billows of wind, each with 
 its burden of slashing rain. From where they were
 
 CLIMAX 305 
 
 standing one could see across the valley, over the 
 drenched and desolate fields, to where Oxford lay, 
 dull, grey, and clustering closely, as though it were 
 frightened of the black clouds that swept so ar- 
 rogantly over the city. In a few of the colleges 
 they were lighting up, and the tiny sparks made 
 even more gloomy the closely grouped towers and 
 huddled domes, while a solitary flash of sunlight, 
 which had somehow come through a quickly closing 
 gap in the clouds, struck with an unearthly radi- 
 ance on the dwarfed roof of the Sheldonian. 
 
 Ray felt encompassed with a spirit akin to trage- 
 dy. Here where he stood, with Steele by his side, 
 there was no sound except the sweep of grasses at 
 his feet, and the bluff roaring of the wind as it 
 struck the walls of the deserted barn. Nothing 
 but the drip, drip of the rain from the eaves and 
 the menace of thunder over the hills. But there in 
 that black city was being fought out the first battle 
 of his life. Here, in a way, seemed the closing 
 time of his youth. He shivered, and turned to 
 Steele. 
 
 "Give me a cigarette, old man, or I shall become 
 abominably gloomy." 
 
 Steele gave him his case, and for some time Ray 
 smoked in silence. 
 
 "I suppose," he said eventually, "that whatever 
 life one has led one always feels that it has been 
 the wrong one."
 
 3 o6 PATCHWORK 
 
 Steele nodded. 
 
 "I mean, when I look out at that place," he 
 pointed to Oxford, darkling and rain-swept, "I feel 
 that all my time there has been wasted." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "I really hardly know. I merely feel that every- 
 thing I've done or tried to do was so extraordinarily 
 rotten. It was just writing on the sand, really. 
 I've been building up a sort of artificial Me for 
 other people. . . ." He whistled mournfully. 
 "D'you remember that verse — Sorley — he was a 
 friend of mine; they killed him in the war — 
 
 "I have a temple I do not 
 Visit, a heart I have forgot, 
 A self that I have never met, 
 A secret shrine — and yet, and yet. . . ." 
 
 He paused. 
 
 "And yet?" Steele repeated. 
 
 Ray laughed shortly. "That's the whole point. 
 The poem goes on to say that really it's all right. 
 I forget the exact words, something about 'This 
 sanctuary of my soul, unwitting I keep white and 
 whole.' But with me it's all wrong." 
 
 "No, it isn't." 
 
 "Yes, it is. Why does one always feel a prig if 
 you mention the word soul? Anyway, I'm damned 
 certain I don't keep mine white and whole. I'm 
 not sure that I even want to. An all-white soul
 
 CLIMAX 307 
 
 sounds rather boring." He laughed unwillingly. 
 "But that wasn't what I meant. I've been so ex- 
 cited lately that I can't think straight. What I 
 mean is this. That whereas with Sorley he was 
 speaking the truth, I should be telling lies if I said 
 the same thing. I felt when I came out here a sort 
 of exaltation, just to be in the wind and the rain. 
 I really did feel for a minute a sort of — well, it was 
 really a sort of divinity." 
 
 "I know." 
 
 "But it's all the most bloody hypocrisy. I know 
 that as soon as I get back to Oxford I shall go on 
 in the same way. I shall run about, and advertise, 
 and play the fool, and try to be brilliant. And 
 probably delude myself into the idea that I really 
 am being " 
 
 He paused again. "Has it stopped raining?" 
 
 Steele shook his head, and Ray turned to him, 
 "I envy you most awfully," he said. 
 
 "Me? Good Lord, why?" 
 
 Ray threw away his cigarette. 
 
 "Well, because you aren't just an echo." 
 
 "Neither are you." 
 
 "Yes, I am. And I'm a false echo, too. I mean, 
 whatever society I'm in I seem to feel I want to be 
 in for ever. If I'm in the Union I feel the only 
 thing to be is a politician. If I'm in the Musical 
 Club I never want to do anything but play the 
 piano. If I'm writing an article I feel as though I
 
 3 o8 PATCHWORK 
 
 wanted to edit every paper in the world. If I'm 
 in the theatre I want to go on the stage. And now 
 I'm out here I want to stay out here for ever, and 
 keep sheep, and get wet every day with the rain, 
 and listen to the wind. . . ." 
 
 He laughed and took Steele's arm. 
 
 "What rot I'm talking! It's a damned shame to 
 expect you to listen to me. Look here, it's nearly 
 stopped now." 
 
 They came out of the little barn where they had 
 been sheltering. It was bitterly cold, and there was 
 an almost fierce purity in the air. The whole earth 
 seemed purged by this triumphant wind. 
 
 "It's growing dark," said Steele; "we'd better 
 trot along to Abingdon." 
 
 They walked quickly across the field, past the 
 wood, its branches still clamouring in the aftermath 
 of the storm, and down a long curving road which 
 led to the little village. All the lamps were lit as 
 they turned into the main street, and through the 
 open door of the inn came out a pleasant blaze from 
 the log fire inside. 
 
 They went in and ordered tea and eggs. Ray 
 felt ravenously hungry, and left all the talking to 
 Steele. Oxford still seemed incredibly remote, and 
 the idea of having to go back along those cold wet 
 roads was not at all attractive. 
 
 He ordered some more eggs, and when they were
 
 CLIMAX 309 
 
 consumed he leant back in his big wooden chair 
 and watched the fire through half-closed eyes. It 
 was raining again outside, and from time to time the 
 sudden hissing of the logs indicated that the rain 
 had found its way down the chimney, which was 
 very wide and old. 
 
 It was not till nearly six that Steele roused him 
 from the doze into which he had fallen. 
 
 "Come on, old chap," he said. "We shall have 
 to go." 
 
 Ray rubbed his eyes. "Oh Lord, in all this 
 rain?" 
 
 Steele nodded. "Yes, but I've managed to get 
 a sort of cab to go in." 
 
 "Have you really? Thank God." He got up 
 and gave a final warm to his still wet shoes. He 
 felt stiff all over, and was inclined to shiver. 
 
 The drive home was uneventful. Ray snuggled 
 up in a rug and tried to go to sleep, but all the 
 time he was conscious of the rain beating inter- 
 mittently on the windows, and as they drew near 
 to Oxford he began again to remember that in an 
 hour or so he would know the result of the election. 
 
 "Are you going to hear the names read out?" 
 he said to Steele, as he got out at Broad Street. 
 
 "I probably shall," he replied. "Shall I come 
 round and let you know?" 
 
 "Yes, do."
 
 3 io PATCHWORK 
 
 "Let's see, it's half-past seven now. I expect 
 I'll be round in about an hour. And have some 
 champagne ready." 
 
 Ray laughed. "Very well." 
 
 He walked slowly upstairs. It was gratifying 
 to see that Mrs. Griffiths had kept his fire in. It 
 was most horribly cold. 
 
 He sat down in front of the fire. Somehow 
 the room looked strangely unfamiliar. He might 
 have been away for months. This little expedition 
 to Boar's Hill seemed to have given him a sudden 
 sense of detachment from Oxford and all his 
 Oxford activities. For a moment he felt almost 
 uninterested in the Union. 
 
 However, he really must wake up. In half an 
 hour he would have to be thoroughly awake, he 
 might even have to make a speech in answer to 
 congratulations. Damn. It was very tiresome to 
 be forced back so suddenly into the life which for 
 the moment he had thrown aside. It would have 
 been far more pleasant to go straight to bed with 
 the echo of the wind still in his ears, to go to bed 
 and dream of darkening hills and great clouds, and 
 rain . . . big, fresh things — how infinitely prefer- 
 able they seemed to all this absurd intrigue. 
 
 He went to the sideboard, and opened, after a 
 great deal of effort, a bottle of champagne, and 
 drank a glass gratefully. Ah, that was better. It
 
 CLIMAX 3 1 1 
 
 was wonderfully refreshing. The bubbles seemed 
 to get inside him and lift him up by a graceful 
 transition, above the somewhat comatose condition 
 in which he found himself. 
 
 He sat down again and waited. The tiny bronze 
 clock over the mantelpiece struck half-past eight. 
 He wished they would hurry up. This suspense 
 was getting on his nerves. 
 
 At last a noise of footsteps was heard in the 
 hall. They were coming up the stairs to tell him. 
 What a lot of them there seemed to be! And why 
 were they walking so slowly? 
 
 And then it suddenly struck him, for the first 
 time, that he might have been defeated. The 
 thought was so unexpected that, for the moment, 
 he felt more surprised than angry. Why the deuce 
 didn't they come in? He walked to the door and 
 opened it. 
 
 Philip was there, with Steele, and Barroni, and 
 Tony Mace, and several others whom in the dark 
 he could not recognise. 
 
 "Well?" he said. 
 
 Philip spoke. "Ray, old boy, I'm awfully sorry, 
 but the other fellow's in." 
 
 Ray turned away. He felt for a second inclined 
 to run away from them all. Oxford had rejected 
 him. Oxford didn't want him. They had chosen 
 some one else, they had chosen a fool, a fat, stupid 
 fool.
 
 3 i2 PATCHWORK 
 
 "It's a damned shame," said Steele. "Only five 
 votes, Ray." 
 
 Ray looked round suddenly. 
 
 "Only five?" 
 
 Steele nodded. 
 
 Ray took his arm and laughed. "But that's 
 totally different. Damn. Damn and blast. Oh 
 Lord, what a life ! Five blasted votes. I say, come 
 in everybody. I don't care now, so much. I 
 thought, when you told me, that it was about 
 five hundred." 
 
 He still did not realise what they had told him. 
 His main feeling was one of distrust. He felt as 
 though every man's hand was against him. He 
 had been tried in the balance and found wanting, 
 by five votes! 
 
 It was not so much the defeat; after all, it would 
 have been almost unprecedented if he had got in 
 so quickly. It was the feeling that Oxford was 
 rejecting him and all that he stood for; that she 
 was choosing a man who did not understand, who 
 never could understand, what Oxford had been, 
 and might yet again be. Panton was typical of the 
 spirit which Ray had been fighting so desperately. 
 He would turn the Union into a barrack room. He 
 would discourage any attempt at frivolity. He would 
 write long reports to The Times saying how earnest 
 Oxford was becoming, how crowded were the lecture 
 rooms, and how rapidly the officers' training corps
 
 CLIMAX 313 
 
 was assuming abnormal proportions. . . . Damn. 
 
 He sat down heavily on the sofa, and then 
 suddenly turned to Steele. 
 
 "What a brute I am, I never asked if you got 
 the secretaryship?" 
 
 Steele nodded. 
 
 Ray took both his hands. "My dear old thing, 
 I'm most awfully glad. How many?" 
 
 "Rather over two hundred, I think." 
 
 "Good Lord, how wonderful! That cheers me 
 no end. Look here, every one, do have drinks. 
 People ought always to drink on these occasions. 
 Tommy, open some champagne. Barroni, there's 
 some whiskey in that cupboard — no, not that one, 
 the one above. No — look here, I'll come and get 
 it myself." 
 
 He was glad of movement to relax the tension 
 which everybody felt. 
 
 "Of course, Ray, you'll stand again?" said 
 Tommy, sipping some pink champagne. 
 
 "You certainly must," added Steele. 
 
 "It would be ridiculous if you didn't," chimed 
 in Barroni. "You're absolutely certain to get in 
 next time." 
 
 "D'you think so?" 
 
 "I know. You see, Panton had stood twice 
 before, and this was only your first shot. He only 
 got in because people were rather sorry for him, and 
 also because he'd got such damned good canvassers."
 
 3H PATCHWORK 
 
 "I suppose I might have a chance." 
 
 "You'd have an absolute certainty. You see, 
 up to the present you've got on almost too quickly. 
 I know you'd have made a jolly good President, 
 but people don't like infant prodigies. I know it 
 sounds beastly, but it's true. In future you'll have 
 a much greater prestige than you ever had before, 
 just because you've been defeated, and because, as 
 far as merit goes, you ought to have won." 
 
 "I'd bet you anything you like," said Philip, 
 as he wrestled with the cork of a whiskey bottle, 
 "that you get a three hundred majority next 
 time." 
 
 "Taken," said Ray. 
 
 Steele slapped him on the shoulder. "That's 
 the spirit. He's going to stand again. I shall look 
 forward to being your Junior Treasurer." 
 
 Ray laughed hopelessly. 
 
 "You're all being most awfully decent," he said. 
 
 "I suppose the dinner's off though, to-morrow?" 
 added Philip. 
 
 Ray spread out his hands in an eloquent gesture. 
 
 "Off? Good Lord, no — the dinner's on. More 
 than ever. It must be the most marvellous dinner 
 ever held. And I shall ask Panton to it." 
 
 "Oh no, don't. He'd only feel awkward." 
 
 "Would he? Very well then, I won't. Only 
 the dinner most certainly will take place. It'd be 
 horribly humiliating to put it off."
 
 PATCHWORK 315 
 
 They discussed further arrangements. Ray no 
 longer felt depressed. He was principally upset 
 now because he knew that his mother would feel 
 it more than he did. She had so longed for him 
 to fill the post which his father had occupied. 
 However, it was no use thinking of that. Besides, 
 he would fill it, sooner or later. At present he 
 felt light-hearted, almost light-headed. He wanted 
 music and laughter and light. 
 
 He sat down at the piano and played a rag. 
 
 People danced. More champagne was opened, 
 the windows were flung wide, and from the street 
 below floated up the cries of his friends, wishing 
 him good luck next time, or telling him, if they 
 were less sympathetic, to "Stop that blasted row." 
 
 Oh yes, everything was all right. What a lot 
 of rot he was talking! The figures in the room 
 seemed to move like marionettes — Tommy, a slim 
 drooping figure, sipping champagne from an 
 unnaturally slender glass; Whitely, a plaster mask, 
 glaring with eyes of fire; Steele, a little black 
 silhouette against the window; Philip, a huge statue 
 on the heroic scale; Barroni, a grotesque rotundity, 
 smoking a cigar with mechanical precision. 
 
 What was the tune he was playing? "Cigarette 
 — cigarette — you're the only true lover, that I can 
 discover, and yet. . . ." 
 
 What was that? Twelve. The figures were 
 going. He was bidding them good-bye. They
 
 316 CLIMAX 
 
 clattered down the stairs, their footsteps were 
 echoing away in the street below. And it was 
 raining. The wind blew in and scattered the thick 
 fume of tobacco smoke with which the room was 
 made blue. He must shut the window. 
 
 He went to the window and leant out. Good 
 God, it was raining like the devil. Streaks of it. 
 He could hear the water running in torrents down 
 the gutters, and plashing monotonously from the 
 roof of the Sheldonian. His hair was clinging to 
 his head in a wet mass. His forehead was icy cold. 
 Oh, that it might rain for ever ... for ever . . . 
 for ever. . . . 
 
 In great echoes the rain seemed to take up the 
 rhythm of his words. It was windy now as well as 
 wet, and for moments there would be a lull, followed 
 by a gust that flung itself like a great wave of spray 
 against the side of the house. Why hadn't he 
 stayed at Boar's Hill? Why had he ever come 
 back to Oxford? Oxford didn't want him. Oxford 
 was dead. Dead — given over to rain and to the 
 ghosts of things he had once loved. . . . 
 
 Slowly he closed the window, and soon he was 
 asleep by the dying fire.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 ANTI-CLIMAX 
 
 NEXT morning the rain had ceased, and the 
 skies were clear. Ray woke up with all 
 feelings of depression completely vanished. He had 
 breakfast in his dressing-gown at nine o'clock, 
 breakfast with the sun streaming in on to the blue 
 china, and mocking the fire which crackled fiercely 
 up the chimney. 
 
 He went to the window and looked out. There 
 were still pools of water in the road, but they were 
 rapidly disappearing. The rows of stone emperors 
 looked positively jubilant, with one side of their 
 faces splashed with morning gold. All the roofs 
 were silver, and laughed up to the great empty sky. 
 
 Never had Oxford been more lovable nor he 
 more capable of appreciating its love. What a fool 
 he had been to be depressed the night before! Of 
 course he would stand again, and next time he was 
 absolutely certain to get in. Barroni had said so, 
 and he was always right. In some ways he felt 
 glad he had been defeated. There would be all 
 the fun of another fight. 
 
 Meanwhile he had to see about the dinner for
 
 3i8 PATCHWORK 
 
 this evening. How many were coming? He ran 
 through their names rapidly in his head. It ought 
 to be extraordinarily amusing. There would be a 
 lot to do, though. He must go and dress. 
 
 Dressing was a particularly elaborate operation 
 that mornng, and was not aided by Whitely, who 
 insisted on coming in to Ray's bedroom to offer his 
 condolences. 
 
 "My dear fellow, please don't think any more 
 about it," said Ray. "It really doesn't signify." 
 
 "Will you stand again?" 
 
 "Of course. And next term I shall come and ask 
 Panton terrible questions in private business. All 
 about his domestic affairs." 
 
 They went out together, and Ray went in for 
 a moment to Black well's. There he saw Tommy 
 Quill, who shook his head mournfully at him. 
 
 "You don't look nearly depressed enough," he 
 said. "I've been writing the most wonderful dirge 
 for you all last night." 
 
 Ray laughed. "I'm not depressed," he said. 
 "Only I'll try to be if you want me to. For in- 
 stance, I might buy your new poems." 
 
 "Yes, do. As many copies as you like. There 
 they are. 'Fauns and Flutes.' " 
 
 "Very well. I shall have one faun and one flute. 
 How much is that?" 
 
 "Three shillings. And please pay for them, 
 otherwise I shan't get my royalty. And, by the
 
 ANTI-CLIMAX 319 
 
 way, a nice little man from Queen's, with a pink 
 face and curly hair, came round this morning and 
 asked me if I thought you would let him caricature 
 you for The I sis." 
 
 "Me? Rather. I love being caricatured. It's 
 such a bore having to do these things oneself." 
 
 "Very well. I'll send him round to-morrow." 
 
 Ray went from Blackwell's to Mrs. Levett's, in 
 the Turl. She too greeted him with her sympathy. 
 He had always bought his flowers from her, and she 
 was thoroughly indignant that he should have been 
 defeated. 
 
 "Mr. Panton ought to be ashamed of himself, 
 sir," she said. "He's no business to be up at the 
 'Varsity at all at his age." 
 
 "Never mind, Mrs. Levett. I can always try 
 again. Meanwhile, what about some flowers? 
 Roses are a great consolation on these occasions." 
 
 He ordered a great sheaf of yellow roses to be 
 sent round to his rooms before lunch. 
 
 "And have you got any grape-fruit? Nice big 
 ones?" 
 
 "Oh yes, sir." She produced some. 
 
 "Splendid. I shall want about eight, because 
 there'll be at least fifteen of us to-night." 
 
 "Very well, sir. And I hope you'll enjoy your- 
 selves." 
 
 "Rather, of course we shall. And thanks very 
 much."
 
 3 2o PATCHWORK 
 
 He walked down the Turl, and across the High. 
 How kind every one was! There was Tugly, 
 waving affectionately from the other side of the 
 road, Tarn Edwardes breaking away from a group 
 of friends to offer his consolation, Barroni bowing 
 with a mournful sweep of the head: it was a great 
 thing to have friends like that. Oxford was going 
 to be even more wonderful than before. Of late 
 he had not had enough to do. Now it would start 
 all over again. He was going to be caricatured for 
 The Isis, he had an article to write for the next 
 Oxford Mercury on "Liberalism as a Living Faith," 
 he was going to play at the Musical Club, he would 
 probably be made President of the Star, and next 
 term there would be another fight for the Union, 
 and then, triumph. 
 
 It was obvious that he ought to buy some 
 clothes to celebrate the occasion. He went into 
 Adamson's. The cool smell of smoky tweeds was 
 wonderfully refreshing. Philip was standing in 
 front of a long glass trying on a Daily Mail hat, 
 assisted by Steele. He put it down when Ray 
 came in. 
 
 "Oh, do put it on again," said Ray. 
 
 "This thing? Good Lord, no. And why are 
 you looking so abominally cheerful when you ought 
 to be in sackcloth and ashes?" 
 
 Ray laughed. "Oh, I don't know. Because
 
 ANTI-CLIMAX 321 
 
 I'm going to choose some clothes, I expect. Come 
 upstairs and help me." 
 
 He led the way up, and soon there was quite 
 a large gathering in front of the long glass. Ray 
 felt absurdly vivacious — capable of getting the 
 keenest enjoyment from the smallest things. 
 
 "I love these sort of glasses, don't you?" he 
 said. "They show one all sorts of delightful things 
 — one's back, for instance. Nice and straight at the 
 top, and then beautifully curved in the middle. Or 
 does that only mean that Adamson's are such good 
 tailors? Anyway, it's very nice. And then one's 
 hair. I never knew my hair was in the least like 
 that. Philip, old thing, reach me that grey bowler 
 a minute." 
 
 "I shan't be seen with you in that," said Philip. 
 
 "I quite agree. No one would look at you. 
 Besides, a second party would ruin the effect. I 
 shall walk down the middle of the road, ploughing 
 solitary furrows. I really think I must have a suit 
 built to match this bowler," he said to the cutter. 
 "And please don't tickle my ankles." 
 
 "Certainly, sir." 
 
 "That," continued Ray, "is the way you should 
 always choose clothes. The first thing to get is 
 the hat. And from the hat you gradually receive 
 inspiration. For instance, if I were building a house 
 the first thing I should buy would be a cat. For
 
 322 PATCHWORK 
 
 the cat I should buy a cushion, for the cushion I 
 should buy a carpet, round the cat, the cushion, and 
 the carpet (lovely alliteration!) I should build a 
 room, and round the room I should build a house. 
 Then, you see, one would walk up a wonderful 
 drive, through an enormous hall, down a long and 
 tortuous passage, and eventually you would pene- 
 trate to the cat. And in the cat's eyes you would 
 find salvation. Damn. That was a pin." 
 
 By now the audience had increased and the little 
 room was almost full. 
 
 "Go on, Ray," said Philip. 
 
 "It's all very well to say go on, but when 
 you've got only one trouser leg and your sock- 
 suspenders don't match your tie, it isn't very easy. 
 However, for your own sake I will go on. It's the 
 same, you see, with anything. You should always 
 start with inessentials. If I were going to build an 
 Empire, the first thing I should think of would be 
 an epigram. Teace with honour,' would be good, 
 because it is meaningless. If I were a Conserva- 
 tive I should say Teace with Bonar.' If I were 
 going to found a religion the first thing I should 
 think of would be a song. Round the song I should 
 build a service, and round the service a sort of . . . 
 I want something beginning with S. So we'll drop 
 that. But it's really very true. Hooray, I've got 
 some trousers. Aren't they lovely? What couldn't 
 you do in trousers like this?"
 
 ANTI-CLIMAX 323 
 
 By now the conversation had become general, 
 and Ray addressed his remarks to Steele. 
 
 "Don't you see," he said, "that's why I'm not 
 depressed?" 
 
 "You'll split your trousers if you don't look out." 
 
 "That would be, in itself, an adventure. But 
 I've found a new philosophy, so what do split 
 trousers matter? Wilde was absolutely right when 
 he said that he was going to live up to his blue 
 china. Blue china should contain the essence of a 
 dozen creeds. Most people start on the outskirts, 
 and spend their best days in the suburbs. I start 
 at Piccadilly Circus, and if I ever reach Ealing, it's 
 only on the way to the New World." 
 
 "Ray, you're growing delirious." 
 
 "I know. Let's go and have something at the 
 Star." 
 
 Out again, through the noisy streets, Philip and 
 Steele by his side. 
 
 "This is the most restful place in the 'Varsity," 
 said Steele, after they had clambered up the narrow 
 stairs in St. Aldate's, and were sitting down in the 
 long grey room. 
 
 "I know," said Ray. "And that's because you 
 let me do the decorations." 
 
 He looked round the room complacently. There 
 was something very appealing in its dove-grey walls, 
 and the tall ceiling with its beams of dead black, 
 and the high windows through which one caught
 
 3 2 4 PATCHWORK 
 
 sight of roots, dappled and patched with moss. 
 
 "The ideal place for the birth of a creed," said 
 Ray. "You get your principles from the ceiling, 
 very high and straight, you get lucidity from the 
 grey walls, and hope from the blue chairs. How 
 nice it is to symbolise ! Have another whiskey and 
 soda?" 
 
 Steele shook his head. 
 
 "Well, what shall we do now?" 
 
 "I shall go and do some work," said Steele. 
 
 "How fearfully morbid! You aren't going too, 
 are you?" He turned to Philip. 
 
 " 'Fraid I must." 
 
 "Brute. Well, I shall continue to walk the 
 streets, and rejoice in my own downfall." 
 
 The noise of the High was like music, the shops 
 tempted him with their brilliantly coloured wares. 
 Outside Colin Lunn's he bought an Oxford News. 
 It would have an account of the Union elec- 
 tion in it, and he turned to see what they had 
 said. 
 
 He smiled as he read. Really, everybody was 
 being extraordinarily kind. The paragraph was 
 headed "Wait and See," and while opening with a 
 few conventional words of congratulation to Pan- 
 ton, went on to say: "We should like to suggest to 
 Mr. Sheldon that he be not discouraged, that he 
 should consider his opponent's very narrow margin 
 of success, in short, that he should not hesitate to
 
 ANTI-CLIMAX 325 
 
 try again. We have seldom listened to a more 
 finished speaker than he is, to one with a finer epi- 
 grammatic sense. Also, beyond all his personal 
 considerable accomplishments, we know him to be 
 considerate and sincere to his friends, and chari- 
 table to his enemies. The man who hasn't enemies 
 isn't worth his salt, for by their number often can 
 be gauged the magnitude of his personality. There 
 can be no doubt about Mr. Sheldon's quality and 
 attractiveness, and as far as varied and graceful ac- 
 complishments may go we unhesitatingly pronounce 
 him as having in his equipment those only finest 
 and most intense. The truest and best sense of 
 that much-abused term 'culture' Mr. Sheldon pos- 
 sesses to the fullest extent; he has made it a part 
 of himself; he imparts it to everything with which 
 he comes in contact. We cannot but think that it 
 is one of Oxford's most cherished possessions, and 
 if she keeps this in mind we believe Mr. Shel- 
 don cannot remain much longer without receiv- 
 ing the most treasured guerdon of her approba- 
 tion." 
 
 Ray wondered who had written that. He put 
 the paper in his pocket and blew his nose. 
 
 Some one put his hands on his shoulder. He 
 turned round. 
 
 "Good Lord— David!" 
 
 David was looking radiant. 
 
 "I've been chasing you everywhere," he said.
 
 326 PATCHWORK 
 
 "I'd no idea you were up. You said you weren't 
 coming this term." 
 
 "I know. I only came up last night to vote for 
 you, and then when I heard the result I hadn't the 
 heart to come round." 
 
 "Silly ass. Why ever not? I never felt more 
 bucked in my life. And you're looking wonderful 
 too. You'll lunch with me, of course?" 
 
 David shook his head. "Can't possibly manage 
 it, I'm afraid. I'm on the way to the station now." 
 
 "Don't be absurd. You must." 
 
 He laughed. "Not even for you, Ray. I simply 
 have to get back to London this afternoon." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Oh, various reasons. Besides, I'm working 
 awfully hard. You see, the idiots at Trinity told 
 me that unless I could learn some history by next 
 term, Oxford would have no further use for me." 
 
 "What brutes!" said Ray, as they got into a 
 taxi. "I was looking forward to seeing you so 
 much at the beginning of this term, and then you 
 never arrived. Mind you work fearfully hard so 
 that you're here next term. By the way, how long 
 have you been up? Altogether I mean." 
 
 "I'm a second-year man now," said David 
 proudly. 
 
 "A second-year man! How priceless that sounds! 
 Do you know, you're the first person I've ever
 
 ANTI-CLIMAX 327 
 
 heard use that expression? For heaven's sake al- 
 ways use it." 
 
 David looked at him in surprised. "Why?" 
 
 "Because — oh, don't you see? It's a tradition. 
 It's a symbol. Ever since the war we've had every- 
 body jumbled up in hopeless confusion. Pre-war 
 men ranked exactly the same as freshers. There 
 weren't any recognised lines at all. But before the 
 war, there were. You were really 'somebody' if 
 you were a third-year man. It was considered 
 rather a condescension if you asked a fresher to 
 dine with you." 
 
 They drew up at the station, and David got out. 
 
 "Don't you bother to come too," he said. 
 
 "I certainly shall," said Ray. "I love putting 
 pennies in the ticket machine. It's a sort of child- 
 ish amusement with me. Besides — oh, my dear 
 old David, I want to go on talking. I want to talk 
 to you for ever. We'll do such wonderful things 
 next term. We'll talk about 'second-year' men, 
 we'll go on the river, we'll get up fearfully early 
 on May morning and hear them sing at Magdalen, 
 we'll get drunk on Friday nights at the Grid — oh, 
 and then you'll dance in Commem. week. D'you 
 remember last year?" 
 
 "I should think I did." 
 
 "Well, it's going to be much more splendid this 
 year. You shall do a solo dance at Trinity, and
 
 328 PATCHWORK 
 
 I shall give you a huge bouquet at the end of it. 
 And then we'll go and bathe again, and swim like 
 fishes, and rush all over the place." 
 
 "And you'll be President of the Union," said 
 David, taking his arm. 
 
 "And I'll be President of the Union. And I 
 shall have the most wonderful debates. All the of- 
 ficers will be forced to wear white carnations. . . ." 
 
 "They ought to be green ones." 
 
 "Of course they ought. Green carnations. And 
 I shall have the statues washed, and the minutes 
 written in gold ink. I think we might get a band 
 to play slow music in the garden when Barroni was 
 making his perorations. And then we can get 
 wonderful limelight effects — turning out all the 
 lights and just having a green streak on the speak- 
 er's face. Of course, I shall make the Union the 
 most wonderful place on earth. I've got a sense 
 of style. I'm the only person in the 'Varsity who 
 has. All the Cabinet shall come down, and there'll 
 be a wonderful reconciliation between Winston and 
 F. E. Smith. They'll fall on each other's necks, 
 and then the lights will go out and everybody will 
 call 'Shame.' Oh, David, it's going to be such fun. 
 And here's the beastly train, coming to take you 
 away. . . ." 
 
 As he walked away from the station, Ray felt 
 as though the last year had been merely a wonder- 
 ful prelude, all leading up to to-day. Looking
 
 ANTI-CLIMAX 329 
 
 back, he realised now how fiercely he had been 
 forced to fight. Was there any one else who could 
 have done what he had done? Was there any one 
 else who would have stood up to the ragging he had 
 endured, who would have disregarded the libellous 
 papers which had endeavoured to put him down? 
 And who, at the end of it all, would have taken his 
 defeat in the greatest struggle of all, the Union, so 
 calmly? 
 Oh, life was going to be good — good! 
 
 Dinner that night was at eight, and Ray spent 
 most of the time after tea in arranging his room. 
 Two extra leaves were put in the table, which was 
 to be lit only by candles with shades of primrose 
 yellow, which harmonised delightfully with the 
 great clusters of yellow roses which he had bought 
 at Mrs. Levett's. For each guest he laid a button- 
 hole of white carnations, remembering how his 
 mother had once told him that it used always to 
 be the custom for the men to be given buttonholes 
 whenever they came to dine. Much to the dismay 
 of Mrs. Griffiths he had insisted on removing the 
 table cloth, and had himself polished the dark oak 
 surface till it shone like ice, and reflected as if it 
 were water the old English glass of which he was 
 so fond. During the afternoon he had suddenly 
 conceived a desire to have menus printed. He had 
 rushed round to the Holywell Press, and had threat-
 
 330 PATCHWORK 
 
 ened Baines, the managing editor, with every de- 
 scription of horror if he did not get them done in 
 time. And now they were here, all standing in 
 rows, with yellow ribbons that matched the yellow 
 roses. It really was going to be a wonderful din- 
 ner. 
 
 At ten minutes to eight they began to arrive. 
 Steele was the first, and was ordered by Ray to 
 uncork a bottle of olives. Then Barroni appeared 
 in a long opera cloak, which, as he informed Ray, 
 was purchased specially for the occasion. Then 
 Tommy Quill, closely followed by Philip, who sat 
 down at the piano and played slow music while 
 the others arrived. 
 
 What masses of them there were! He hoped 
 they wouldn't clash. Apart from the Union crowd 
 he had insisted on having a large number of the 
 House set, because, as he said to Philip, they were 
 always so cheerful, and always got drunk so grace- 
 fully. As usual they were a little late. Victor 
 Cartaret, cool and full of condolences, strolled in 
 with Lord Henry Vane, who appeared to be on the 
 point of tears. Tommy Gott too, with his fair hair 
 brushed well back over his forehead, apologising 
 for not having offered his sympathies before. 
 
 "I voted for you, you know," he said, in a tired 
 voice, "only it just didn't make any difference. I 
 think they ought to count my vote as half a dozen, 
 because I never go to the Union. Anyway, you'll
 
 ANTI-CLIMAX 331 
 
 get in next time. And there's pink champagne on 
 the sideboard." He fell to pommelling Vane. 
 
 Henry Channing was the next arrival. He en- 
 tered talking in a charming American accent, with 
 intense rapidity, about nothing at all. "My dear 
 Ray, how quite depressing! We all voted for you, 
 and Tommy hired an enormous barouche which we 
 drove to the polls in the most flagrant manner, I 
 think it most noble of us. We were just in the 
 middle of a game of bridge — we always play bridge 
 on Monday mornings — and suddenly Tommy said, 
 'Good God' or Good something or other — 'Ray's 
 standing for the Presidency 'of the Union!' So of 
 course we all rushed — simply rushed — to the Union. 
 It was so clever of us to find where it was, as we 
 hardly ever go, except in the dark, and when you're 
 speaking. I'm sure my vote ought to count at 
 least twenty. ..." 
 
 "I've said that already," shouted Tommy from 
 the sofa. 
 
 "Thank you." Henry bowed. "And here's dear 
 Oscar." 
 
 Oscar was the name given to Osbert Wilde, one 
 of the few charming people in Magdalen. He 
 apologised for not changing. "My idiot of a scout 
 upset my shaving water all over my shirt, and it 
 was the only one I had. And oh, Ray, old boy, 
 I am so sorry. I thought I should find you on a 
 sofa dressed in black and covered with lilies. It
 
 332 PATCHWORK 
 
 is quite abominable." He towered over Ray witn 
 an expression of deep sympathy on his pink face. 
 
 "Of course it'll really do him a lot of good, you 
 know," said Victor Cartaret, coming over from the 
 window and taking his arm. "Won't it, Ray?" 
 
 He laughed. "Oh, I don't know. I suppose all 
 disagreeable things do. Are we all here now?" 
 
 "Let's sit down and see," said Philip. 
 
 "I think Philip ought to be forced to remain at 
 the piano," said Osbert. 
 
 "Thanks, you can remain there yourself if you 
 want. Personally, I'm going to get drunk." 
 
 "Not yet, please, Philip. I want to talk." 
 
 But Ray had no desire to monopolise the con- 
 versation to-night. He merely felt extraordinarily 
 happy. Everybody was talking at the top of their 
 voices. Remarks were shouted to him from the 
 end of the table, and he made laughing replies, 
 corks popped, people smoked with every course. 
 Steele was on his right, the guest of honour. 
 
 "I never said how damned glad I really was 
 about your election," he said to him quietly. 
 
 "There wasn't any need." 
 
 "Yes, there was. I was absurdly depressed last 
 night." 
 
 "I don't blame you. But really, Ray, you've got 
 no sort of cause to be depressed. Next term every- 
 thing will be all right again. Everybody knows 
 what you have done for Oxford."
 
 ANTI-CLIMAX 333 
 
 "What we've done, you mean." 
 
 "Perhaps I do. In fact, I think I do mean that. 
 It's rather funny, you know, but I've been drawing 
 some of the fire which used to be concentrated on 
 you." 
 
 Ray looked at him in surprise. "How do you 
 mean?" 
 
 "Well, didn't you see the paper they published 
 this morning?" 
 
 "No. Who got it out?" 
 
 "I think it was another of Berry's productions. 
 Anyway, there was a picture of you on the throne, 
 and a picture of me behind, whispering things in 
 your ear, and apparently urging you on to further 
 deviltry." 
 
 Ray laughed. "What idiots they are!" 
 
 "Aren't they? They think now that I'm a sort 
 of sinister figure in the background that conceives 
 all these notions of clubs and papers, and that 
 you're only the figure-head." 
 
 There was an uproar at the other end of the 
 table, and it was some moments before they could 
 speak again. 
 
 "Somehow," said Ray, after a while, "I feel that 
 we've already played our biggest part." 
 
 "Why? What about the Union? That's the 
 biggest of all. . . ." 
 
 "I know. But it isn't ours. The club was ours, 
 the Mercury was ours, the papers were ours —
 
 334 PATCHWORK 
 
 nearly everything that mattered was ours. But 
 the Union, that's just ours for a term, and then — 
 perhaps even not for a term. . . ." 
 
 There was another outburst, and Ray laughed 
 and gave up the attempt he had been making to 
 talk. 
 
 "Tommy, you're getting drunk," he shouted. 
 
 "I called for madder music and for stronger 
 wine," fluted Tommy, in a voice of intense melan- 
 choly. "I have beenn faithful to thee, Cynara, in 
 my fash ... in my fashion." 
 
 Having said this he consumed olives with an 
 air of religious devotion. 
 
 "Speech, Tommy," shouted Philip. 
 
 Everybody shouted with laughter. The door 
 opened for a moment, and Mrs. Griffiths appeared 
 with a telegram. 
 
 "Put it down on the sideboard, will you, please?" 
 said Ray. Who could bother with telegrams now? 
 
 Tommy rose, a little unsteadily, and waved his 
 wineglass, which was fortunately empty. 
 
 "Ladies," he said, "and gentlemen." "Shame!" 
 from ieveral corners of the room. 
 
 He looked round in dreamy abstraction. "It was 
 not my intention," he said, "to cast aspersions on 
 your sex. I was merely expressing a pleasurable 
 hope as to your manners. We have," and here his 
 voice rose to the soprano register, and kept there, 
 much to Ray's delight — "we have," he repeated,
 
 ANTI-CLIMAX 335 
 
 "the inestimable honour of drinking (loud laughter) 
 the health of one of our most distinguished citizens." 
 He repeated the latter word several times. "Mr. 
 Sheldon (cheers) is one of the most brilliant 
 (cheers), the most witty (cheers), the most ver- 
 satile of our — our leaders. And I am going to 
 tell him a secret. I am going to write a poem to 
 him. I have," he said modestly, "written many 
 poems in my life (loud cheers). Very beauti- 
 ful poems, too. The themes have been furnished 
 by the legends of Dr. Smith's Classical Dictionary 
 (laughter). 'The satisfaction of beholding sunset' 
 (laughter), 'The assumed satisfaction of beholding 
 dawn' (loud laughter), 'The theoretical condemna- 
 tion of political tyranny, and proofs of the existence 
 of God' (cheer). But no theme, no sunset, no 
 dawn, no despotism, no God, has ever filled me 
 with such magic as that with which I am 
 filled tonight, for Mr. Sheldon is himself a poet. 
 Ray, may you live for ever, and pass the soda- 
 water." 
 
 He sat down amid a renewed uproar, and every 
 one shouted to Ray for a speech. However, he felt 
 incapable of replying just then, and was glad when 
 Philip immediately sat down at the piano and 
 played the " 'Varsity Rag." 
 
 "Clear the decks!" shouted Osbert. The rugs 
 were pulled up indiscriminately, the table shoved 
 on one side, and soon everybody was dancing, ex-
 
 336 PATCHWORK 
 
 cept Tommy, who waved a yellow rose mournfully 
 backwards and forwards. Sometimes they would 
 stop dancing, and then a speech would be made, 
 followed by songs in which everybody sang the 
 chorus. Ray took Philip's place at the piano, and 
 then Victor Cartaret played the opening of Pagliac- 
 ci in which he somehow contrived to sing bass, 
 soprano / and tenor all at once. 
 
 Carnival! The room was strewn with rose 
 leaves, and everybody was singing: 
 
 "You'll do it in your bath, you'll do it in the town, 
 You'll do it in pyjamas, and you'll do it in your 
 gown, 
 With the Jaggers' Jazz and the Coppers' Craggers' 
 
 crawl, 
 And the Magdalen Meander, say, Kid, some ball! 
 And the Wadham Waddle. . . ." 
 
 Damn! There was another smashed glass. 
 Ray kicked it into the fireplace, and gulped some 
 brandy. Oh Lord, what a row! There was Bar- 
 roni, sitting on the end of the sofa, crowned with 
 a wreath of ivy, apostrophising an empty decanter 
 of port. Tommy Quill was almost asleep, but still 
 murmured plaintively that Ray was a poet, "an 
 artist of life," he said, and swallowed the stone of 
 an olive which for some time he had been chewing 
 with intense satisfaction. Eleven struck, and half- 
 past, and it was only at two minutes to twelve that 
 the party eventually broke up.
 
 ANTI-CLIMAX 337 
 
 Ray was flushed and crimson. He embraced 
 everybody as they went out, and took up some 
 roses and hurled them over the stairs as they were 
 clattering down. One of them nearly knocked down 
 Tommy. 
 
 "Good night!" 
 
 "Good night! Good night, everybody!" 
 
 He slammed the door and leant against it, weak 
 with laughter. 
 
 How marvellous it had all been! He felt rather 
 drunk. The room was not swaying, but it was 
 charmingly vague. The ceiling seemed much too 
 big for the floor, and the rugs positively refused to 
 be put straight. He lay back on the sofa and 
 closed his eyes. No — he mustn't close his eyes, be- 
 cause if he did that his head seemed to leave his 
 body and turn round and round till he felt giddy. 
 He opened his eyes again, as widely as he could, 
 and looked with benign interest round the room. 
 
 First he saw the piano, its black surface littered 
 with coffee-cups, in whose saucers were still smok- 
 ing the ends of several cigarettes. The smoke 
 went up in a little blue thread which quivered at 
 the top in the draught from the window. The 
 window was wide open and the heavy curtains 
 which he had drawn aside stirred restlessly in the 
 night air which drifted through. 
 
 Then he turned his attention to the walls. How
 
 338 PATCHWORK 
 
 drunk that harlequin looked in his white frame! 
 He seemed to be laughing at Ray. Damn his im- 
 pudence. And the picture of the man blowing bub- 
 bles to the moon. How they floated up, so grace- 
 fully — black and green and blue — up to the yellow 
 moon. Of course he was a genius — nobody but a 
 genius could have painted a picture like that. He 
 would paint a lot more. 
 
 Next, his eyes rested on the table. What an un- 
 holy mess! Mrs. Griffiths would be sick when she 
 saw it to-morrow: But it was still beautiful, with 
 the beauty of a ruin. As a matter of fact it did 
 look rather like a ruin. The bottles looked like 
 the towers of a deserted town, and the glasses 
 clustered together like houses. One of them was 
 smashed. Over the whole thing towered a great 
 forest — a forest of roses — yellow roses. . . . 
 
 His gaze wandered to the sideboard. Somebody, 
 probably himself, would have to pay for that 
 smashed china. Some fruit had been upset on the 
 floor, and an apple was still sizzling in the cinders. 
 And what was that dripping noise that never 
 ceased? Oh Lord, another bottle of champagne up- 
 set. He really must wake up and see if he couldn't 
 get some sort of order into all this confusion. 
 
 He rubbed his eyes, and walked stiffly over to 
 the sideboard. Yes, it was a bottle of champagne 
 that had been overturned. He picked it up. He 
 supposed he ought to get a cloth and wipe up the
 
 ANTI-CLIMAX 339 
 
 debris, but somehow he felt disinclined for action. 
 He poured out a glass of water and drank it greed- 
 ily, and then stared again at the sideboard. 
 
 Suddenly he noticed a coloured envelope, satu- 
 rated in champagne, lying on one of the plates. 
 What a funny colour it was! It must be that 
 blasted telegram that Mrs. Griffiths had brought in 
 earlier in the evening. But it wasn't the colour of 
 an ordinary telegram. It gleamed maliciously in 
 the light of the candle under which it lay. As he 
 looked at it all the candles in the room suddenly 
 blew out in a gust of wind. He stumbled to the 
 window and shut it, and groped for the matches. 
 He felt that the electric light would be much too 
 glaring just now. 
 
 He lit the candle and put it on the mantelpiece. 
 Now for this beastly telegram. It was rather 
 dramatic to read it like this, in the middle of the 
 night, under the flickering candle. 
 
 He stretched out his hand and took it from the 
 plate. It was sopped through, and he had to shake 
 it before he could get it open. 
 
 And then he read: 
 
 "Mother seriously ill operation necessary come at 
 once. Helen." 
 
 Who was that strange figure that was looking at 
 him in the glass, with such a white face and such 
 staring eyes? Himself? 
 
 Slowly he closed his eyes, and bowed his head.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 RAY ALONE 
 
 A DAY gone, and a night. Another day, and in 
 his mind a broken picture — white cliffs, and 
 a racing sea, a sense of hopelessness, Paris — a city 
 of terror, the slow train. 
 
 Years had gone by since two nights ago. He 
 was so old now. So old. Everything was gone. 
 Oxford was gone, vanished like the mists in early 
 spring. 
 
 If only he could arrive in time! 
 
 Marseilles — that was days ago — Toulon — Hy- 
 eres — would they never arrive? And then — Can- 
 nes. . . . 
 
 With his heart beating faster and faster, he 
 jumped out. He saw Helen standing alone by the 
 entrance. He suddenly felt as though he dared not 
 speak to her, as though he wanted to jump over the 
 railings and run through the wet streets and carry 
 his mother away before any one else could get to 
 her. 
 
 He went up to her. He did not notice how un- 
 steadily he walked. 
 
 He put his hand on hers. "What?" He could 
 340
 
 RAY ALONE 341 
 
 say nothing else. Even then he found his mind 
 thinking how incongruous the question sounded. 
 
 "Oh, Ray!" She burst into tears and turned 
 away. Ray ran his hands through his hair, and 
 tried to swallow. His throat was dry. He felt 
 sick. What did she mean? Why didn't she tell 
 him? And yet, she mustn't tell him. She might 
 be wrong. She must be wrong. Out of the corner 
 of his eye he suddenly saw his mother's car. He 
 had to get to it somehow. That would take him. 
 Oh! quickly. He got out of the station and told 
 the driver who he was. 
 
 "Quickly. Quickly. For God's sake." 
 
 The car rushed down the long straight prome- 
 nade. A great wind, specked with rain, sang in his 
 ears and blew his hair into his eyes. It revived 
 him sufficiently to tell him how exhausted he was. 
 He felt beaten, tired, bruised. It was so cold. 
 
 And it was growing so dark. They were out in 
 the country now, and the long lines of poplars bent 
 their heads in the wind, and the grasses in the 
 hedgerow were alive and lamenting. Over the hills 
 the sun had already gone down, but it still coloured 
 with blood the ragged clouds which seemed to sweep 
 triumphantly over its grave. 
 
 On, on — would they never get there? And yet, 
 did he want to get there? He was afraid. He 
 had become a coward. It was almost night now 
 and the wind was rising. He did not know what
 
 342 PATCHWORK 
 
 would happen when he got there. Why didn't he 
 know? He turned to the driver as though to ask 
 him. But again he could not speak. He could 
 only look out at the flying poplars, and beyond 
 them to the rolling fallows and the lonely sky. 
 
 And then, in the valley beneath, a white house. 
 Ray put his hands over his eyes. 
 
 He knew, as soon as they turned into the great 
 drive, that his mother was dead. He did not 
 realise what it meant to him, but he knew. This 
 white house was a tomb. And he suddenly wanted 
 to be alone. He felt a fierce resentment as the 
 door opened and he saw the dimly lighted hall and 
 the snivelling housekeeper. What right had she 
 here? What right had these men in black who 
 wanted him to sit down? Why did they keep him 
 waiting? She would not have allowed it. She 
 wanted to see him. He knew that. She was dead 
 — but she wanted to see him. 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 Again he could only say the one word. 
 
 They took him up the lonely stone stairs, and 
 along the corridor hung with tapestries that swung 
 restlessly in the wind. Yes, that door at the end, 
 that must be it. 
 
 He stood in front of it, and motioned them away. 
 And now he was indeed alone. 
 
 When they found him again, it was dawn. He
 
 RAY ALONE 343 
 
 was still kneeling by her bed, and the room was 
 heavy with the scent of roses, mixed with the sickly 
 smell of the anaesthetic. Grey light was streaming 
 through the barred windows, and listlessly a few 
 blossoms of wisteria tossed outside in the drizzling 
 rain.
 
 PERORATION
 
 PERORATION 
 
 WILL he never come back?" 
 "Not now." 
 
 The speakers were Steele and David. The time 
 was two years later. The place was Oxford, shad- 
 owed with the mists of early spring. 
 
 David went to the window and looked out. The 
 High was noisy and cheerful as usual, but the jangle 
 of bicycle bells, the rush and clatter of traffic, the 
 laughter and shouts from the crowd below, jarred 
 strangely on his nerves this evening. 
 
 "I don't think anybody will ever know how I 
 have missed him." He kept his eyes on the mottled 
 roofs opposite him. 
 
 "Nor I." 
 
 There was silence for a few minutes. 
 
 "I wonder if he's changed much?" 
 
 "Ray won't ever change." 
 
 Steele warmed his hands at the flickering fire, 
 the sole light in the room. "He might have done 
 anything," he said slowly. "I don't think I have 
 ever, in all my life, known anybody quite like Ray. 
 He was brilliant in everything he did. There was 
 
 347
 
 348 PATCHWORK 
 
 nothing he couldn't have achieved. Whether he 
 was speaking, or playing the piano, or editing 
 papers, or just laughing and talking, and ragging 
 about, he was always the centre of the whole thing." 
 
 David nodded. 
 
 "It wasn't just froth," went on Steele, "because 
 he was an astonishingly wise person, too. Where 
 he got his wisdom from I could never understand. 
 He wasn't a scholar, because he never attempted 
 to work, in the ordinary sense of the word. But 
 he had more than anybody I know an exact knowl- 
 edge of how to do the things that he wanted to do." 
 
 David sat down by the fire. "It is extraordinary 
 what a blank one person can make in one's mind, 
 isn't it? Ray filled a very great part of mine. I 
 didn't really bother so much about what he did, 
 because all his various interests didn't interest me 
 in the least, except that he was doing them. And 
 except his music, of course. The reason why I 
 loved Ray, and why I still love him, although I 
 never see him and he hardly ever writes, is because 
 in spite of all these things, in spite of all that sort 
 of outward layer of brilliance, he was such an ex- 
 traordinarily simple and lovable person under- 
 neath. He was such a perfect friend." 
 
 "Yes, he was." 
 
 "I mean — he'd often come round to my rooms, 
 after making some speech, or amusing half the col- 
 lege, or doing something wild and — and spectacular
 
 PERORATION 349 
 
 — he'd come round to my rooms, and sit in front 
 of the fire, and stroke that absurd little fluffy dog 
 I had, and laugh quietly, and say how damned silly 
 the whole thing was." 
 
 He paused, and looked in the fire. "I remember 
 once, last summer, when he had been particularly 
 wild, how he came round at about eleven o'clock 
 at night to my rooms in Trinity. He ought to 
 have gone to bed, because he was dead tired; he 
 only came because he had promised to — Ray never 
 broke a promise — at least only once — and that 
 wasn't his fault. And he was so tired that he 
 couldn't even eat some strawberries I'd got for 
 him, but just sat looking at them, and laughing 
 softly to himself. And I asked him why he rushed 
 about so much and why he never rested, and he 
 said, T can't rest. It isn't in me.' And then he 
 talked a lot about how unsettled he felt, and what 
 a rotter he was — he always used to call himself a 
 rotter in private, and a genius in public, that's 
 what most people didn't understand — and finally 
 he got up and said he was creating the old Oxford 
 again. I didn't understand, and he never ex- 
 plained. . . ." 
 
 "The old Oxford?" Steele smiled. '\I believe 
 that was really what Ray was trying to do all the 
 time. He was trying to live a life which can't 
 really be lived any more. I remember when I first 
 met him — in the army — he used to say how wonder-
 
 35o PATCHWORK 
 
 ful he thought Oxford was going to be. He'd 
 read 'Sinister Street/ and he'd made up his mind 
 that he was going to lead that sort of life again. 
 And then when he came up, he found he couldn't. 
 Everything was different — you know how different 
 it was yourself. Ray really belonged to the past. 
 And instead of accepting things as they were, like 
 most of us, he just sat down and said, 'I'm going to 
 make Oxford again myself. I'm going to change 
 everything, or rather to make everything what it 
 once was.' Of course, it was absolutely impossible. 
 But as a matter of fact he nearly did succeed. He 
 influenced Oxford more than anybody else since 
 the war. It wasn't merely that everybody in the 
 'Varsity knew him, that he was a sort of show per- 
 son — it was simply that first of all he made himself 
 as prominent as anybody could be, and then that 
 he proceeded to live, in the limelight, the sort of 
 life he had all along intended to live. When he 
 left he was just about reaching his ambition. He 
 could have been President of the Union by holding 
 up his little finger, he could have run any damned 
 thing he liked — I wouldn't have been in the least 
 surprised if he had calmly gone into training and 
 walked off with a blue. If he'd wanted to, you 
 can be quite sure he'd have got it. But — well, it's 
 no use talking of what he might have done. He's 
 gone now, and he'll never come back. To Oxford 
 at any rate. . . ."
 
 PERORATION 351 
 
 And what was Ray doing? 
 At the exact moment at which David and Steele 
 were talking, he was at a big luncheon party in 
 New York, whither he had gone a few months after 
 his mother's death. He was on this occasion, as 
 on nearly every other, the centre of interest. In 
 this huge room, with its stone walls and gilded ceil- 
 ing, he had all the background he could desire. 
 Beyond the fact that he looked a little older and 
 that the wrinkle on his forehead which, in his Ox- 
 ford days, he had been at pains to conceal, was 
 allowed to furrow as deep as it liked, the casual 
 observer would have noticed in him little change. 
 He was, as of old, perfectly dressed; and the short 
 black coat which he wore seemed to enhance the 
 fresh colour in his cheeks. He seemed to be en- 
 joying his lunch, and sipped ice-water, nibbled 
 salted almonds, and talked. 
 
 He was talking at the moment to a stout hand- 
 some woman opposite him, whose corsage seemed 
 to drip with pearls. 
 
 "So you really like New York, Mr. Sheldon?" 
 
 "Love it," he returned. 
 
 "That's very charming of you, I'm sure. Now 
 do tell us why?" 
 
 Ray smiled at the inevitable question. 
 
 "Well, for one thing, because I think it's so ex- 
 traordinarily beautiful."
 
 352 PATCHWORK 
 
 " Beautiful? My goodness! And you an Ox- 
 ford man!" 
 
 She merely echoed the astonishment of the rest 
 of the table. 
 
 Ray frowned for a brief second, and then smiled 
 again. 
 
 "That's partly the reason. You see, I didn't 
 think Oxford was beautiful at all." 
 
 "Oh my!" She lifted her hands. "And all those 
 charming picturesque old buildings! Why, I could 
 live there for ever, and . . . and just dream." 
 She closed her eyes, and breathed heavily for a 
 moment to show how deeply affected she was. 
 
 "I used to think that too, once," said Ray. "But 
 I don't think so now." 
 
 "Please, Mr. Sheldon, do explain." 
 
 "Oh, yes, please. Pm sure an author like you 
 must have some reason." (Ray had a successful 
 comedy running at The Vaudeville.) 
 
 Ray smiled and drew figures on the misted out- 
 side of his glass of ice-water. Should he explain? 
 Could he explain? And yet at that moment he felt 
 he wanted to talk about Oxford. He lifted his eyes, 
 and caught sight of a huge Wyndham Lewis draw- 
 ing which, in a moment of cubist ecstasy, his hostess 
 had allowed to be hung in her dining-room. 
 
 He pointed to it. "Do you see, that?" he said. 
 "Well, that's what I mean." 
 
 She looked at it.
 
 PERORATION 353 
 
 "Oh, that awful thing? Nora, I can't think why 
 you have it in the dining-room." 
 
 Everybody agreed. It was so hard, and so 
 dreadful, "and so cruel," added the lady opposite 
 Ray. 
 
 Ray leant forward. "I know it's hard, and I 
 know it's dreadful, and I know it's cruel. But so 
 is the world. Nothing could be harder or more dis- 
 tracted or more angular. Don't you see it's all a 
 reflection?" 
 
 In a moment he had entirely changed. He 
 looked years older. His very face seemed sud- 
 denly to have grown harsh and angular. The 
 luncheon party leant back in their chairs en masse. 
 Mr. Sheldon was going to talk. That was already, 
 in New York, a signal for silence. 
 
 Ray kept his eyes on the picture, and seemed to 
 talk to it. "I don't know whether it's right or 
 wrong, but I know it's true — and that's why I 
 think it's right. When I came back from France, 
 for a time I just saturated myself in Oxford. I 
 thought it was the most lovely place on earth. 
 And then suddenly I realised it was all wrong — it 
 was all lies. I'd been living in a dream, making 
 up sonnets, and playing soft music, and wander- 
 ing about in the moonlight. It wasn't real. All 
 those beautiful curved domes and spires and things, 
 all the old stone and the damnable picturesqueness 
 of the place — why should they be so lovely when
 
 354 PATCHWORK 
 
 the world's what it is? If I built a war memorial 
 now, I should build it of steel, I should build it 
 straight up, on a bare rock, absolutely naked, and 
 pitiless and grey. If I wrote poetry now, I should 
 write hard short metallic lines, and if I painted a 
 picture, it would be painted with nothing but bright 
 green and hard bright red — like that picture there." 
 
 He paused again. Nobody said anything. 
 
 "Don't you see, it's all a reaction against the 
 sort of false softness we'd been living in before the 
 war? Everything was just warm and happy, we 
 ignored tragedy and we ignored death. And then 
 suddenly they both came down on us, and we got 
 nothing else. And we saw that really there was 
 nothing else that wasn't sham. We'd been en- 
 ervated and precious. Our minds were over-heated. 
 And now we've swung violently round the other 
 way, because it's the only way to swing. I feel 
 now an absolutely violent hatred against all that 
 sort of pre-war attitude. I feel as though my 
 hands were hot and sticky, and as though I simply 
 had to cool them on cold steel. I feel all that soft 
 beauty of Oxford is an insult. There's been so 
 much formlessness, so much colour, just colour 
 without form — in everything, in life, in politics, in 
 art. Men didn't plan their lives, they lived them 
 haphazard, and tried to colour them by just getting 
 a few distorted pleasures now and then. States- 
 men didn't even plan their policies, there was no
 
 PERORATION 355 
 
 form about them, there was just a charming drift, 
 with a lot of picturesque ceremony and stuff. And 
 you know where it all led to. It's the same in 
 art — with the exception of people like Cezanne 
 and Epstein — every one was just decorating and 
 colouring. It was all just a patchwork — a patch- 
 work oj colour and emotion — and that's broken up. 
 And now I want something sharp — something 
 absolutely clear cut and direct. I want some- 
 thing brutal and naked. 
 
 "I came away from Oxford because," he 
 paused for a moment and shut his lips tightly, 
 "well, there was one big reason, and perhaps that 
 showed me the rest. Anyway, I came to New York 
 because it's straight and uncompromising, and be- 
 cause it's here for a purpose. I look at the ware- 
 houses and the skyscrapers just to get comfort. I 
 love everything about them. I love their hard 
 black roofs and their straight lines. I love their 
 angles, and their grit, and their brightness. I 
 love them because they're steel and not rotten 
 old stone, and because they're straight and not 
 crooked, and because they're mechanical — and 
 because I've been turned into a machine. It's al- 
 most physical, the sensation I mean. I feel I 
 want to put my hands on the cold roofs, and cool 
 my face against the hard rails. It's like drinking 
 cool water when one is dying of thirst. . . ." 
 
 He stopped suddenly and looked down at his
 
 356 PATCHWORK 
 
 tightly clenched hands. Slowly he released them 
 and tried to smile. But for once, the smile which 
 he had worn so bravely now for nearly two years 
 refused to come. He felt terribly as though he 
 might cry. Everything was so lonely, his listeners 
 so cruel, so far away. . . . 
 
 Oxford — how he longed again for Oxford! It 
 would be spring now at Oxford, and the larches 
 would be green over the Cherwell. Boar's Hill was 
 ripe with bluebells now, and there would be prim- 
 roses in Chorley Wood. The very names of these 
 places were sweet. Oxford! — the city that be- 
 longed to youth, to enthusiasm, to impulse, and to 
 laughter. . . . 
 
 Through the bright gilded windows he looked 
 out wistfully to the drifting clouds. 
 
 THE END
 
 
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