So Mark read Greek with the Vicar of Little Fairfield and Latin with the
Rector of Wych-on-the-Wold, who, amiable and holy man, had to work
nearly twice as hard as his pupil to maintain his reserve of
instruction. Mark took long walks with Richard Ford when Richard was
home in his vacations, and long walks by himself when Richard was at
Cooper's Hill. He often went to Wychford Rectory, where he learnt to
enjoy Schumann and Beethoven and Bach and Brahms.
"You're like three Saint Cecilias," he told them. "Monica is by Luini
and Margaret is by Perugino and Pauline. . . ."
"Oh, who am I by?" Pauline exclaimed, clapping her hands.
"I give it up. You're just Saint Cecilia herself at fourteen."
"Isn't Mark foolish?" Pauline laughed.
"It's my birthday to-morrow," said Mark, "so I'm allowed to be foolish."
"It's my birthday in a week," said Pauline. "And as I'm two years
younger than you I can be two years more foolish."
Mark looked at her, and he was filled with wonder at the sanctity of her
maidenhood. Thenceforth meditating upon the Annunciation he should
always clothe Pauline in a robe of white samite and set her in his
mind's eye for that other maid of Jewry, even as painters found holy
maids in Florence or Perugia for their bright mysteries.
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