The inscription says: "Long Jump, 1739," or some such date. "First Prize, won by ——" and then my name very big and splendid. Underneath comes the school crest, followed by the motto, "Dat Deus Incrementum," though I have never jumped any further since. Its shape is the ordinary sherry-glass shape. It is my only cup, and I am proud of it.
I look up as I write, and I see the—by the way, I don't know if you have ever tried "looking up as you write." It is a common thing for reflective writers to say they do, but you should never believe them. It is impossible to write properly when looking somewhere else. What we do is to stop and slew our necks round, and then take a fresh dip in the ink. Well, slewing my neck round as I stop writing, I see my precious cup standing on its shelf, and ... horror! It is standing upside down!
This comes as a surprise to you, but it is no surprise to me. The thing has been going on for months. It is months ago that I first spoke to Celia about it.
"It's Jane," she said. "She always puts it like that when she's been dusting."
"Yes, but what for? Just to catch the eye?"
"I suppose because you always stand glasses upside down when you've cleaned them—to keep the dust out."
"But if she'd only think a moment she'd see that I don't drink out of this, and that glasses don't have 'First Prize, won by —— '"
"Jane isn't here to think, she's here to work."
This seemed to be a distinction drawn between Jane and me.
"You see what I mean," I said, "don't you? It's very difficult to read the cup upside down. A stranger mightn't know who—er—who had won it."