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bridge and along the riverbank. Why was she doing this? Tormenting herself with the sight of all that she’d lost? This was a world that had rejected her without compunction largely because she was female, and because she had challenged authority’s model of female behaviour. To survive in this hostile environment it was wise to pin back your hair, wear spectacles and clumpy shoes. It was prudent to acquire a taste for lisle stockings, weak tea, and earnest conversation, and never to hanker after silk, champagne cocktails, or racy talk. And it was no disadvantage to gain higher marks than the men. She had found she could do none of those things.
    She followed the winding western bank of the Cam through the beech trees until she came upon the sight of King’s College across the river. The light was so intense she had to squint up into the gem-hard blue of the sky to admire the slender thrust of the pinnacles of the Chapel. For an unsettling moment a pillared temple at Karnak standing out against an equally brilliant sky superposed itself. But the sun-scorched vision was dispelled by the movement of a herd of black and white cows, up to their udders in buttercups, lazily munching their way across the lush meadow grass in front of the college.
    She knew why she loved this place. The monuments, the pillars, the carved temples of Egypt were not on a human scale. They towered; they threatened. You lowered your eyes before the stones of Egypt. But the golden architecture she now looked at raised the eyes as it lifted the spirit. Every line of the Chapel pointed heavenwards; every pinnacle exhorted the onlooker to praise God. But it was the secular buildings clustering about—Clare, classical and handsome with its pilastered front smiling genially onto the river; the graceful Wren Library; the balanced and elegant Senate House—which gave out the confident statement: “If praise is due—praise Man.” Not one single potentate, no Ramses, no Thutmosis, demanded the onlooker’s abasement; the name of no single vaunting personality came to Laetitia’s mind as she stood, smiling and admiring. A few English kings and queens had attempted to secure immortality here by their benevolence perhaps, but she could never remember their names. And none of the architecture rang a martial note; no brazen trumpets sounded—just the deep and jovial swell of the chapel organ. This was a place that celebrated learning, progress, and creativity. It celebrated Humanity.
    Distantly, a cracked bell dinged the three-quarter hour and Laetitia walked on along the path skirting the lawn towards the gate leading into King’s Parade. The scene of her crime. She’d foolishly accepted a challenge from a group of male undergraduates, some of whom she had counted her friends. Of course she was bold enough to light a cigarette and walk across the middle of the lawn! The Proctor and his two Bulldogs must have been lurking close by. Her companions had mysteriously melted away: she’d been left alone to face the wrath of the college hierarchy.
    She paused, tempted for a moment to repeat her crime. No. Time to grow up. The cigarettes stayed in her bag and her feet on the path.
    This was not and never would be her place. She heard again in memory her godfather’s voice:
“Don’t look back, Letty!”
and she kept her face determinedly set towards Trumpington Street and her second meeting of the morning.
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    Fitzbillies tea shop was strangely empty when she arrived, and she hardly needed to hear the welcoming voice calling, “Over here, Letty!” to locate her friend. Laetitia hurried over, weaving between the tables towards the small brown-haired, brown-eyed girl jumping to her feet in excitement. They clasped hands and kissed each other warmly before settling down on either side of the starched cloth.
    â€œTrain on time? I hope you’ve not been waiting