But what brought Jacob Flanders to read Marlowe in the British Museum?  Youth, youth—­something savage—­something pedantic.  For example, there is Mr. Masefield, there is Mr. Bennett.  Stuff them into the flame of Marlowe and burn them to cinders.  Let not a shred remain.  Don’t palter with the second rate.  Detest your own age.  Build a better one.  And to set that on foot read incredibly dull essays upon Marlowe to your friends.  For which purpose one most collate editions in the British Museum.  One must do the thing oneself.  Useless to trust to the Victorians, who disembowel, or to the living, who are mere publicists.  The flesh and blood of the future depends entirely upon six young men.  And as Jacob was one of them, no doubt he looked a little regal and pompous as he turned his page, and Julia Hedge disliked him naturally enough.

But then a pudding-faced man pushed a note towards Jacob, and Jacob, leaning back in his chair, began an uneasy murmured conversation, and they went off together (Julia Hedge watched them), and laughed aloud (she thought) directly they were in the hall.

Nobody laughed in the reading-room.  There were shirtings, murmurings, apologetic sneezes, and sudden unashamed devastating coughs.  The lesson hour was almost over.  Ushers were collecting exercises.  Lazy children wanted to stretch.  Good ones scribbled assiduously—­ah, another day over and so little done!  And now and then was to be heard from the whole collection of human beings a heavy sigh, after which the humiliating old man would cough shamelessly, and Miss Marchmont hinnied like a horse.

Jacob came back only in time to return his books.

The books were now replaced.  A few letters of the alphabet were sprinkled round the dome.  Closely stood together in a ring round the dome were Plato, Aristotle, Sophocles, and Shakespeare; the literature of Rome, Greece, China, India, Persia.  One leaf of poetry was pressed flat against another leaf, one burnished letter laid smooth against another in a density of meaning, a conglomeration of loveliness.

“One does want one’s tea,” said Miss Marchmont, reclaiming her shabby umbrella.

Miss Marchmont wanted her tea, but could never resist a last look at the Elgin Marbles.  She looked at them sideways, waving her hand and muttering a word or two of salutation which made Jacob and the other man turn round.  She smiled at them amiably.  It all came into her philosophy—­ that colour is sound, or perhaps it has something to do with music.  And having done her service, she hobbled off to tea.  It was closing time.  The public collected in the hall to receive their umbrellas.

For the most part the students wait their turn very patiently.  To stand and wait while some one examines white discs is soothing.  The umbrella will certainly be found.  But the fact leads you on all day through Macaulay, Hobbes, Gibbon; through octavos, quartos, folios; sinks deeper and deeper through ivory pages and morocco bindings into this density of thought, this conglomeration of knowledge.