“A good many of them are, no doubt,” laughed Giles. “Do you wonder if my wife will look like that?”
Alix had a sudden vision of Toppie in the rainy High Street. Yes, even dear Toppie would sink, she felt, into the fatal sameness, embody the type. She could see her, slender, in her wet grey tweed, speeding on a bicycle in just such a velour hat. They, too, were perhaps Toppies if one could have a careful look at them.
“Do you intend to live in Oxford, Giles?” she inquired.
“I’d like to.—Here is Magdalen and the tower. Let’s cross the bridge so that you can see the tower.—It’s where I want to live.”
They crossed the bridge and he told her about the tower and the May morning ceremony.
“It must be very charming, very gay,” said Alix. “And would you care to marry soon?” The question, she knew, was academic, merely. There could be no hope of marriage for Giles as long as Toppie thought only of Captain Owen. But they could both pretend.
“I couldn’t marry soon.” Giles was still laughing, though evidently a little disconcerted by her lack of appreciation. “I’ve no money.” He led her off to Christ Church meadows.
“None at all, Giles?”
“Well, only enough to have a very dowdy wife. To buy her a better hat and a smarter costume tailleur I’d need a great deal more.”
“But Captain Owen was to marry.” Alix ventured it. It was all so remote.