Ethel gazed at the Professor; she did not know the source of her feelings for him, they felt new to her, and at the same time, as if they had always been there, buried deep inside her; she knew that she was, for some reason she could not fathom, in thrall to him, despite the considerable differences in age, class, education – his intellect was quite acerate, sharp as a needle and she often failed to grasp the true meaning of things he said, so her thoughts and feelings were confused, it was almost as if they had been imposed on her, but how or when she could not begin to fathom; she knew that she lacked assertiveness, that she was neither especially gifted nor beautiful – in the way that Gloriana Gillyfeather was beautiful, and assertive, but with the morals of a polecat, a ratfink – and she felt tired, though having apparently slept soundly for over twelve hours, felt that she had no right to be so tired; she had finished her breakfast and thanked Sir Pontypine for it, and he suggested that they look at the vacant guest bedroom which, it seemed, she had agreed to move into – it was all very perplexing and strange, for she had no memory of agreeing to the arrangement the Professor had described, yet it made perfect sense – studying was extremely difficult in the shared student flat and she knew that as she could only compensate for lack of any natural talent by diligent work, alternative living conditions might well be her only way of getting through the course-work; and so it was that she followed Sir Pontypine up the stairs, past his own bedroom which – she was grateful for his discretion – he did not open and show her, and then into a really rather lovely bedroom-cum-study which, he assured her, was entirely rent-free! he had no need of the money and it had always been in his nature to offer it to a promising but rather impoverished student, who would benefit from the quiet and calm habits of this house to undertake her studying and course-work, without the many distractions that ensued from living in cramped and overcrowded student accommodation, and he said that it was a memorial to his late mother, who had taken a particular interest in bettering the lives of girls of lesser means, helping them if they were in trouble, writing testimonials to enable them to find employment in service; Ethel was grateful, almost inordinately so, and she half-expected MacFarlane to take her in his arms and shower her with kisses for her gratitude, but, of course, he was far too much of a gentleman to do such a thing, which left her feeling rather queerly disappointed, but she reasoned with herself, once she was living here and they became better acquainted, perhaps his natural reserves would slip away and he might begin to appreciate that she had more to offer than being merely promising and impoverished; what was going on in her head? she wondered – he was wealthy, an esteemed historian who had published seven books and she had read them all, devoured them, for several were classics and all were essential reading for anyone wanting to achieve academic success in Modern 20th Century History, but she sensed her feelings, her emotions, didn't give a flying fuck about Modern 20th Century History, they were far more carnal than she had ever before experienced; 'oh! what is life, so full of woe,' she paraphrased in her head, 'that we have no strength to get up and go?' and that, she suddenly realised, perfectly summed everything up: she could not get up and go, she could not leave the house – even to go so far as the flat, to say goodbye, pack her things and return; she would need the Professor to give her permission, and so she asked him: "may I go, now, please, sir, to fetch my things so that I can move in?" and he clapped his hands: "perfectly put, Ethel, dear, we'll go in the car because I need to do some shopping also, viands for the weekend, perhaps a roast chicken on Sunday, do you like your bird stuffed?" and for some really weird reason, she blushed to her roots!