‘People do seem to be ashamed of admitting that they read poetry,’ said Jane, ‘unless they have a degree in English—it is permissible then. It has become a kind of bad habit, but one that is excused. I wonder what she made of Mr. Auden and Mr. MacNeice? Perhaps the seventeenth century was more to her taste, as it is to mine. Odd to think that we may have had that in common.’ She took a book from the shelf and began to examine it in the hope of finding an interesting inscription on the fly-leaf. Nor was she disappointed, for on it was written in a fine, intelligent-looking hand F. from C, 18th
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