When Lucy first heard Arlinghurst mentioned it was not by any of the Staff but by the students themselves. She had spent Saturday afternoon with Fr?ken and her mother, helping to finish the Swedish folk costumes which the Juniors would wear for some of the country dances at the Demonstration. It was a lovely day and they had taken the piles of bright primitive colour to the furthest corner of the garden, where they could sit and look over the English countryside. Both cricket and tennis matches were “away” this week, so the garden was deserted, and no toiling figures marred the virgin green of the field beyond the stream. They had sewed in great beatitude, and Fru Gustavsen seemed to have reported well of Lucy to her daughter, for Fr?ken’s reticence had largely vanished, and Lucy was delighted to find that a young woman who had always reminded her of sunlight on snow was the possessor of a rich warm chuckle and a sense of humour to match. (It is true that Lucy’s sewing considerably shook Fru Gustavsen’s faith in her, but much must be forgiven the English.) Fru Gustavsen had gone back to the subject of food, and had held forth at great length on the virtues of something called “frikadellar”; which, it appeared, was a kind of mince. Lucy (whose cooking consisted of chopping up a few tomatoes in a pan at the last moment, adding whatever was to be cooked, and pouring some cream over the lot) thought it a very lengthy and complicated affair, and decided to have nothing to do with it.

“Are you doing anything tonight?” Fr?ken had asked. “My mother and I are going into Larborough to the theatre. She has not yet seen an English company. We would be delighted if you would care to come with us.”

Lucy explained that tonight she was going to a party in Stewart’s room to celebrate her Post. “I understand that Staff don’t usually go, but I am not real Staff.”

Fr?ken slid an eye round at her and said: “You ought to be. You are very good for them.”

That medicinal phrase again. As if she were a prescription.

“How?”

“Oh, in ways too subtle for my English — and much too subtle for the German language. It is, a little, that you wear heels; a little, that you have written a book; a little, that they don’t have to be just a tiny bit afraid of you; a little that — oh, a thousand littles. You have come at a good time for them; a time when they need a distraction that is not — distracting. Oh, dear, I wish my English was better.”

“You mean, I am a dose of alkali on an acid stomach.”

Fr?ken gave her unexpected chuckle. “Yes, just that. I am sorry you will not be coming to the theatre, but it is a great mark of favour to be invited to a students’ party, and you will enjoy it, I think. Everyone will be happy tonight, now that the examinations are over. Once they come back from the match they are free for the week-end. So they will be gay this Saturday. Off the chain,” she added, in English.

And off the chain they certainly were. As Lucy came in by the quadrangle door, leaving Fr?ken and her mother to go round to the front of the house where they lived, a blast of sound rose up round her. The rush of bath water on two floors, the calling of innumerable voices, the drumfire of feet on bare oak stairs, singing, whistling, crooning. Both teams had apparently come back — victorious to judge by the atmosphere — and the place was alive. The place was also excited, and one word was woven like a leit-motif through the babble. Arlinghurst. Arlinghurst. As she walked past the ground-floor bathrooms on her way to the stairs, she heard the first of it. “Have you heard, my dear! Arlinghurst!”

“What?”

“Arling-hurst!”

A tap was turned off.

“I can’t hear with the blasted water. Where, did you say?”

“Arlinghurst!”

“I don’t believe it.”

“But yes,” said another voice, “it’s true.”

“It can’t be; they don’t send First Posters to Arlinghurst.”

“No, really it’s true. Miss Hodge’s sec. told Jolly in confidence and Jolly told her sister in the village and she told Miss Nevill at The Teapot, and Miss Nevill talked about it to The Nut Tart when she was there to tea this afternoon with that cousin of hers.”

“Is that gigolo here again?”

“I say, Arlinghurst! Who would believe it! Whom do you think they’ll give it to?”

“Oh, that’s easy.”

“Yes, Innes of course.”

“Lucky Innes.”

“Oh, well, she deserves it.”

“Just imagine. Arlinghurst!”

And on the first-floor it was the same; the rushing of bath water, the splashing, the babble, and Arlinghurst.

“But who told you?”

“The Nut Tart.”

“Oh, my dear, she’s dippy, everyone knows.”

“Well, it’s a cert for Innes, anyhow, so it’s nothing to do with me. I’ll probably wind up in the L.C.C.”

“She may be dippy, but she’s not M.D., and she’d got it pat. She didn’t even know what Arlinghurst was, so she wasn’t making it up. She said: ‘Is it a school?’”

“Is it a school! My hat!”

“I say, won’t The Hodge be just dizzy with pride, my dears!”

“D’you suppose she’ll be dizzy enough to give us tart for supper instead of that milk pudding?”

“I expect Jolly made the puddings yesterday and they’re all standing waiting in rows on the hatch.”

“Oh, well, they can wait as far as I’m concerned. I’m for Larborough.”

“Me, too. I say, is Innes there?”

“No, she’s finished. She’s dressing.”

“I say, let’s throw Innes a party, all of us, instead of letting her give a little private one. After all, it’s —”

“Yes. Let’s do that, shall we? After all, it isn’t every day that someone gets a post like that, and Innes deserves it, and everyone will be glad about it, and —”

“Yes, let’s have a do in the common-room.”

“After all, it’s a sort of communal honour. A decoration for Leys.”

“Arlinghurst! Who’d have believed it?”

“Arlinghurst!”

Lucy wondered if the meek little secretary’s indiscretion had been prompted by the knowledge that the news was about to be made public. Even the cautious and secretive Henrietta could not sit on such a piece of information much longer; if for no other reason than that Arlinghurst would be expecting an answer. Lucy supposed that Henrietta had been waiting until the “bad” week was over before providing her sensation; she could not help feeling that it was a very neat piece of timing.

As she walked along the corridor to her cell at the end, she met Innes, buttoning herself into a fresh cotton frock.

“Well,” said Lucy, “it seems to have been a successful afternoon.”

“The row, you mean?” Innes said. “Yes, we won. But the row is not a war chant. It’s a paean of praise that they will never have to live this week again.”

Lucy noticed how unconsciously she had used the word “they.” She wondered for a moment at the girl’s calm. Had she, possibly, not yet heard about the Arlinghurst vacancy? And then, as Innes moved from the dimness of the corridor into the light from Dakers’ wide-open door, Lucy saw the radiance on her face. And her own heart turned over in sympathy. That was how it felt, was it? Like seeing Heaven opened.

“You look happy, anyhow,” she said, falling back on bald platitude since there were no words to describe what was shining in Innes’s eyes.

“To use a phrase of O’Donnell’s, I wouldn’t call the king my cousin,” Innes said, as they moved apart. “You are coming to Stewart’s party, aren’t you? That’s good. We’ll meet again there.”

Lucy powdered her nose, and decided to go over to the “old house” and see how the Staff were reacting to the news of Arlinghurst. Perhaps there would still be some tea; she had forgotten all about tea and so apparently had the Gustavsens. She rearranged the bottle of champagne which was waiting for Stewart’s party in the ice she had begged from Miss Joliffe, regretted yet once more that the Larborough wine merchant had not been able to supply a better year, but trusted (rightly) that Rheims and all its products were simply “champagne” to a student.

To go over to the “old house” one had to pass both the Seniors’ bedrooms and the first floor bathrooms again, and it seemed to Lucy that the orchestration of sound had reached a new pitch of intensity, as more and more students heard the news and passed it on and commented on it above the roar of water, and banging of doors, and the thudding of feet. It was strange to come from that blare of sound and excitement into the quiet, the cream paint and mahogany, the tall windows and space, the waiting peace of the “house.” She crossed the wide landing and opened the door of the drawing-room. Here too there was quiet, and she had shut the door behind her and come forward into the room before becoming aware of the exact quality of that quiet. Before realising, in fact, that the quiet was electric, and that she had walked into the middle of a Staff row. A row, moreover, if one was to judge from the faces, of most unholy proportions. Henrietta was standing, flushed and defensive and stubborn, with her back to the fireplace, and the others were staring at her, accusing and angry.

Lucy would have beaten a retreat, but someone had automatically poured out a cup of tea and thrust it at her, and she could hardly put it down again and walk out. Though she would have liked to for more reasons than one. The tea was almost black and quite cold.

No one took any notice of Lucy. Either they accepted her as one of themselves, or they were too absorbed in their quarrel to realise her fully. Their eyes had acknowledged her presence with the same absent acquiescence that greets a ticket collector in a railway carriage; a legitimate intruder but not a partaker in discussion.

“It’s monstrous,” Madame was saying. “Monstrous!” For the first time within Lucy’s experience she had discarded her Récamier pose and was sitting with both slender feet planted firmly on the floor.

Miss Lux was standing behind her, her bleak face even bleaker than usual, and two very unusual spots of bright red high on her cheek-bones. Fr?ken was sitting back in one of the chintz-covered chairs looking contemptuous and sullen. And Wragg, hovering by the window, looked as much confused and embarrassed as angry; as if, having so lately come up from the mortal world, she found this battling of Olympians disconcerting.

“I fail to see anything monstrous about it,” Henrietta said with an attempt at her Head Girl manner; but even to Lucy’s ears it had a synthetic quality. Henrietta was obviously in a spot.

“It is more than monstrous,” Madame said, “it is very nearly criminal.”

“Marie, don’t be absurd.”

“Criminal from more than one point of view. You propose to palm off an inferior product on someone who expects the best; and you propose at the same time to lower the credit of Leys so that it will take twenty years to recover it, if it ever recovers. And for what, I ask you? For what? Just to satisfy some whi............