walked home again, it would be teatime and his afternoon would have been nicely filled in. Only of course if he took a bus he would get home sooner.
Francis Cleveland, hunched in his grey overcoat, walked gloomily into the Bodleian quadrangle and up the stairs into Duke Humfrey’s library. There was something he had meant to look up, but he had forgotten now what it was. TALK LITTLE AND TREAD LIGHTLY said the notice. Mr. Cleveland trod as heavily as he could and would certainly have talked much, had he seen anyone to talk to. When he looked in at his usual seat by the hot water pipes, he found it occupied by a young clergyman, who gave him a startled glance but who stood his ground and offered no apology. Mr. Cleveland sat down in the empty and more draughty seat beside him and with unnecessary fuss began to move his books from the young clergyman desk onto the new one. When he had got them all together he decided that he did not want to read any of them, so he got up and began walking about until he came across Edward Killigrew, a senior assistant in the library, who was always ready for a good gossip.
Edward Killigrew sat at his desk, wearing a leather golf jacket and grey hand-knitted mittens. He was a tall, vague man of uncertain age, with a fussy, petulant voice. He lived with his old mother in the Woodstock Road. He was reading a catalogue of second-hand books and marking certain items, but he did not in the least mind being interrupted in his work. He kept Mr. Cleveland entertained with spiteful bits of gossip about various members of the University and the library staff until nearly four o’clock. Then he stood up and said, ‘Well, I must go now. Mother will be annoyed if I’m late for tea. She always likes it punctually at half past four.’
Left to himself once more, Mr. Cleveland wandered through the Upper Reading Room, brushed aside the dark, mysterious curtain leading to the Tower Room, and hovered indecisively by the bookcase where the dictionaries and encyclopaedias were kept.
Oh, supposing he comes in here, thought Barbara Bird in a panic. So great was her agitation that she hardly knew whether she wanted him to come or not. She crouched in her seat by the radiator, with her fur coat around her shoulders, trying desperately hard to concentrate on her work.
Mr. Cleveland went on hovering in the entrance to the Reading Room, peering inquisitively among the desks. He was bored, and it was always rather a comfort to watch other people working. And then he saw Barbara and realised that she was just what he needed. He wanted to be with somebody who appreciated him. He went up to her desk with an ingratiating smile on his face.
‘Do come out and have some tea with me,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you’ve been working quite long enough this afternoon.’
He could see her hands trembling slightly as she looked up from her book. They were pretty hands with long, rose-coloured nails. Unacademic-looking hands, he thought.
‘I’d love to,’ she said, looking up at him with eyes which Mr. Cleveland might have described even more warmly.
She stood up and arranged her books neatly on the desk, looked at her face in a small mirror and put on her gloves. She was purposely taking her time so that she could compose herself and think of what she should say to him when the time came for intelligent conversation.
They walked out of the Reading Room and down the stairs.
‘Don’t you get depressed working in that place after the end of term?’ said Mr. Cleveland. ‘I should have thought you’d rather go home.’
Go home with the chance of seeing you in Oxford? thought Barbara. Why, if I’d gone home this wouldn’t be happening to me. ‘It’s impossible to work at home,’ she said. ‘One simply can’t get any peace.’
‘Where do you live?’
‘In North Wales, by the sea.’
‘Oh, do you? We often go to Llanfaddyn in the summer. We sometimes take reading parties there,’ said Mr. Cleveland. ‘I
Francis Cleveland, hunched in his grey overcoat, walked gloomily into the Bodleian quadrangle and up the stairs into Duke Humfrey’s library. There was something he had meant to look up, but he had forgotten now what it was. TALK LITTLE AND TREAD LIGHTLY said the notice. Mr. Cleveland trod as heavily as he could and would certainly have talked much, had he seen anyone to talk to. When he looked in at his usual seat by the hot water pipes, he found it occupied by a young clergyman, who gave him a startled glance but who stood his ground and offered no apology. Mr. Cleveland sat down in the empty and more draughty seat beside him and with unnecessary fuss began to move his books from the young clergyman desk onto the new one. When he had got them all together he decided that he did not want to read any of them, so he got up and began walking about until he came across Edward Killigrew, a senior assistant in the library, who was always ready for a good gossip.
Edward Killigrew sat at his desk, wearing a leather golf jacket and grey hand-knitted mittens. He was a tall, vague man of uncertain age, with a fussy, petulant voice. He lived with his old mother in the Woodstock Road. He was reading a catalogue of second-hand books and marking certain items, but he did not in the least mind being interrupted in his work. He kept Mr. Cleveland entertained with spiteful bits of gossip about various members of the University and the library staff until nearly four o’clock. Then he stood up and said, ‘Well, I must go now. Mother will be annoyed if I’m late for tea. She always likes it punctually at half past four.’
Left to himself once more, Mr. Cleveland wandered through the Upper Reading Room, brushed aside the dark, mysterious curtain leading to the Tower Room, and hovered indecisively by the bookcase where the dictionaries and encyclopaedias were kept.
Oh, supposing he comes in here, thought Barbara Bird in a panic. So great was her agitation that she hardly knew whether she wanted him to come or not. She crouched in her seat by the radiator, with her fur coat around her shoulders, trying desperately hard to concentrate on her work.
Mr. Cleveland went on hovering in the entrance to the Reading Room, peering inquisitively among the desks. He was bored, and it was always rather a comfort to watch other people working. And then he saw Barbara and realised that she was just what he needed. He wanted to be with somebody who appreciated him. He went up to her desk with an ingratiating smile on his face.
‘Do come out and have some tea with me,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you’ve been working quite long enough this afternoon.’
He could see her hands trembling slightly as she looked up from her book. They were pretty hands with long, rose-coloured nails. Unacademic-looking hands, he thought.
‘I’d love to,’ she said, looking up at him with eyes which Mr. Cleveland might have described even more warmly.
She stood up and arranged her books neatly on the desk, looked at her face in a small mirror and put on her gloves. She was purposely taking her time so that she could compose herself and think of what she should say to him when the time came for intelligent conversation.
They walked out of the Reading Room and down the stairs.
‘Don’t you get depressed working in that place after the end of term?’ said Mr. Cleveland. ‘I should have thought you’d rather go home.’
Go home with the chance of seeing you in Oxford? thought Barbara. Why, if I’d gone home this wouldn’t be happening to me. ‘It’s impossible to work at home,’ she said. ‘One simply can’t get any peace.’
‘Where do you live?’
‘In North Wales, by the sea.’
‘Oh, do you? We often go to Llanfaddyn in the summer. We sometimes take reading parties there,’ said Mr. Cleveland. ‘I
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