“In that case,” said Dr. Pym, leaning back and sniffing, “I cannot agree with them that two heads are better than one.”

“The undersigned persons think it needless to touch on a kindred problem so often discussed at committees for University Reform:  the question of whether dons see double because they are drunk, or get drunk because they see double.  It is enough for them (the undersigned persons) if they are able to pursue their own peculiar and profitable theme—­which is puddles.  What (the undersigned persons ask themselves) is a puddle?  A puddle repeats infinity, and is full of light; nevertheless, if analyzed objectively, a puddle is a piece of dirty water spread very thin on mud.  The two great historic universities of England have all this large and level and reflective brilliance.  Nevertheless, or, rather, on the other hand, they are puddles—­puddles, puddles, puddles, puddles.  The undersigned persons ask you to excuse an emphasis inseparable from strong conviction.”

Inglewood ignored a somewhat wild expression on the faces of some present, and continued with eminent cheerfulness:—­

“Such were the thoughts that failed to cross the mind of the undergraduate Smith as he picked his way among the stripes of canal and the glittering rainy gutters into which the water broke up round the back of Brakespeare College.  Had these thoughts crossed his mind he would have been much happier than he was.  Unfortunately he did not know that his puzzles were puddles.  He did not know that the academic mind reflects infinity and is full of light by the simple process of being shallow and standing still.  In his case, therefore, there was something solemn, and even evil about the infinity implied.  It was half-way through a starry night of bewildering brilliancy; stars were both above and below.  To young Smith’s sullen fancy the skies below seemed even hollower than the skies above; he had a horrible idea that if he counted the stars he would find one too many in the pool.

“In crossing the little paths and bridges he felt like one stepping on the black and slender ribs of some cosmic Eiffel Tower.  For to him, and nearly all the educated youth of that epoch, the stars were cruel things.  Though they glowed in the great dome every night, they were an enormous and ugly secret; they uncovered the nakedness of nature; they were a glimpse of the iron wheels and pulleys behind the scenes.  For the young men of that sad time thought that the god always comes from the machine.  They did not know that in reality the machine only comes from the god.  In short, they were all pessimists, and starlight was atrocious to them—­ atrocious because it was true.  All their universe was black with white spots.