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her beautiful accent – not one of us was able to understand it, and instead of guessing, we began by compelling her to translate.
    ‘What jolly French you speak and write,’ said Mr Morrison, ‘how lucky for you.’
    ‘I spent six years of my youth in a convent in France,’ she explained, blushing slightly.
    ‘I am sorry the charade is so difficult. I will do my best to explain it. Here is a gentleman drawn forth by his passion for the distant heights – that is a mathematician. Like Phoebus, he rides upon my first – it is a Roman chariot,
char
.’
    ‘It’s Charles Morrison,’ shouted everybody.
    ‘Of course,’ said Annabel with a smile. ‘He stumbles over the comical grammar, which immediately tells him, with its austere charm, that my second is known, in its bizarre jargon, as the plural definite article,
les
.
    ‘His too eager stallions gallop forth and swallow the last letter of my third; it is
mors
, the bit; we say that horses galloping very fast “swallow the bit”.
    ‘Did they neigh, or was it their master, who, forgetting his deep reveries, tastes the sweet madness of my fourth; it is “laughed”,
ri
.
    ‘At the end of the day, the horseman descends, and seats himself in front of a copious dinner. His horses also set to eating, each with a bag of my fifth on its muzzle. It is bran,
son
.’
    We all felt that our efforts paled in comparison with the sophistication of hers!
    Mr Weatherburn’s effort came last. He said he found it too difficult to write a charade, and offered us the followingdouble acrostic instead, in which not only the first letter of each line must be read vertically, but also the first letter of the last word of each line.
    Ode to a perfect moment
    Each precious moment of gravity or Jest,
    Mingles the twinkling lights in Opalescence
    In her dark eyes. Too soon, this charming Nest,
    Like everything, will fade in Evanescence.
    Yes, precious moments never Stay.
    Brief is the moment – soon, with measured Tread,
    Unconscious future will the present O’ertake.
    Reality will realise hope or Dread,
    Keen is the pain of the dreamer who must Awake.
    Each time, today is Yesterday.
    He wrote it for Emily, yet he looked much at me as he read it.
    I feel more than unusually tired after such an eventful evening and such a long letter, and shall put out my candles and retire for the night.
    Goodnight, my dearest twin
    Your loving Vanessa
Cambridge, Wednesday, April 4th, 1888
    My dearest sister,
    How I wish I could have spent Easter Sunday with you,at home! I did not teach for two days after it, and spent the short holiday delightfully, rambling about in the fields and along the rivers. The great banks of daffodils have been in bloom for some time now, and the primroses and wild flowers of all kinds are making their appearance. The fields are emerald, and the hedgerows covered with a faint fuzz which will soon be a mass of tiny blooms. The weather is cool and damp, yet carries such freshness within it that the call of springtime is irresistible.
    Yesterday, on my way down the long field path to the village of Grantchester, where I had decided to take my tea outdoors, I met Mr Weatherburn, bent on the same errand (if one may call it so). Grantchester is so lovely and dainty, with its thatched cottages, that one feels far away from any town, and I can almost imagine that I will soon see our own dear house appearing before me. We walked together, and talked at length, mostly about books, plays and poems. He knows a great deal of poetry, and we talked much about Shakespeare, Keats, and Tennyson. Arriving at Grantchester, we sat ourselves at a small table in the garden of the tea room, and ordered tea and scones. They came delightfully accompanied with cream and jam, and apart from the kindly lady who brought the things out to us, we were quite alone there, for the weather is still too cool for most people, who preferred to take their tea within doors. The rest of the afternoon passed for me