The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion: Vol. 8

by Beth Brower

Women with pockets are a threat to the male sex.”

There is a certain evening hue, a blue tinged in cool green spread over warm pavement. I don’t know a better description, but it was one of my father’s favourite shades.

When the ordeal was over, I avoided my aunt and her co-conspirators and made my way directly to the powder room. (Which I wished was a gun-and-powder room, where I might arm myself.)

After the meal, in the drawing room, I was ordered to stand between Arabella and a “ghastly lamp which makes all women appear plain and sickly. It should have no great effect on your features, Emma.”

And what a view. Oh, I don’t know how to describe these streets. As if every surface were patinaed with hundreds of years of words and thoughts and equations! And history and intelligent argument and green fields not so distant. I do not know what to say other than Oxford makes a transcendent first impression.

Emma: “Any limitations on what I can bring?” Islington: “Bring whatever will make you comfortable. This is not intended to be a stuffy visit, by any means, Lion.” Emma: “And you will be providing the foils?” Hawkes, muttering: “Is that a reference to sport or literature?”

“Good afternoon,” I heard Ben Chambers say, followed by, “If you need any help, only… Pardon me sir, but is that miscreant bothering you?”

“Thank you, although I did also bring a hat of my own. I’m not a complete barbarian.” “Still to be determined.”

This is a place that knows every old thing.

One should go away long enough to know the cotton-soft contentment of coming home.