My new freedom of spirit gave me courage to re-examine the emotional and aeesthetic values of my environment.  I could not persuade myself that I liked the sound of bells, and the greyness of the country in winter-time still revolted me, as though I had not yet forgotten the cheerful reds and greens and blues of the picture-books that filled my mind as a child with dreams of a delightful world.  But now that I was wise enough to make the best of my unboyish emotionalism, I began to take pleasure in certain phases of school-life.  Though I was devoid of any recognisable religious sense I liked the wide words in the Psalms that we read at night in the school chapel.  This was not due to any precocious recognition of their poetry, but to the fact that their intense imagery conjured up all sorts of precious visions in my mind, I could see the hart panting after the water-brooks, in the valleys of Exmoor, where I had once spent an enchanted holiday.  I could see the men going down to the sea in ships, and the stormy waves, and the staggering, fearful mariners, for I had witnessed a great tempest off Flamborough Head.  Even such vague phrases as “the hills” gave me an intense joy.  I could see them so clearly, those hills, chalky hills covered with wild pansies, and with an all-blue sky overhead, like the lid of a chocolate-box.  I liked, too, the services in the old church on Sunday nights, when the lights were lowered for the sermon, and I would put my hands over my ears and hear the voice of the preacher like the drone of a distant bee.  After church the choral society used to practise in the Great Hall, and as I walked round the school buildings, snatches of their singing would beat against my face like sudden gusts of wind.  When I listened at the doors of my form-room I heard the boys talking about football matches, or indulging their tireless passion for unimaginative personalities; I would stand on the mat outside wondering whether I would be allowed to read if I went in.

I looked forward to Tuesday night, which was my bath-night, almost as much as to Sunday.  The school sanitary arrangements were primitive, and all the water had to be fetched in pails, and I used to like to see the man tipping the hot water into the bath and flinging his great body back to avoid the steam that made his grey flannel shirt-sleeves cling to his hairy arms.  Most of the boys added a lot of cold water, but I liked to boil myself because the subsequent languor was so pleasant.  The matron would bring our own bath towels warm from the fire, and I would press mine against my face because it smelt of childhood and of home.  I always thought my body looked pretty after a really hot bath; its rosiness enabled me to forgive myself for being fat.