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do you think it’s true?” she repeated in a mechanical, deliberate voice.
    “It must be,” I conceded. “If Mrs Robbins claims that in her—what is The Dark Lantern —a novel?”
    Virginia nodded.
    “Then it must be true.”
    Satisfied, Virginia left me to finish my bath.

IN A CAMBRIDGE GARDEN IN JUNE

    Sunday 18 June 1905—Grantchester Inn, Cambridge
    “V irginia?” Lytton said, offering her a sugar bun. “Mmm. No. I thought not.” Lytton wiped his fingers on one of the blue napkins and replaced the bun in the basket.
    They are so alike in their determined fastidiousness, I thought, watching them sitting side by side on the riverbank. Brilliant, awkward, delicate, charming fusspots. They have both fastened on to this idea of calling those in our closest circle of acquaintance by their Christian names—not just when referring in conversation, which we already do anyway, but in person . It has always been easy to be familiar with my female friends such as Nelly and Snow, but I am finding it challenging in mixed company. Mr Strachey is Lytton—but that is no effort, as Lytton is such a thin, pressed name and suits him so well. Flamboyant, dainty, and usually lovesick, Lytton is a hypochondriac who is always ill or reading French literature and never shies away from outrageous topics. It would be impossible to be formal with him when he is so determined to be informal .
    I do not want to seem fusty and Victorian and am trying to remember to use Christian names but I keep misstepping. Yesterday I offered Mr Bell tea, sandwiches, and finally an umbrella. Virginia wished I would sit down and not fuss. Clive feels so personal, and the nature ofthe name is so loose and abrupt—like sliding on silk down a grassy hill and landing with a gentle thump. He never corrects me, nor prompts any untoward intimacy, and he keeps calling Virginia and me “the Miss Stephens.” But my Miss Stephen is gentler, softer, more lit by sunlight and fragranced with honeysuckle than Virginia’s dusty, bookish-sounding Miss Stephen. Terrible and meaningless, but I am pleased to be the more endeared for once.
    I closed my eyes to the afternoon sunshine. Getting Virginia to Cambridge had been like moving a pound of ants. She became convinced that the train would derail, the luggage would be stolen, Wombat would be lost, Thoby would fall ill, she would catch it—and on and on. She can do that as she knows I will take up the slack, arrange the tickets, see to the luggage, find the porter, water the dog, speak to the servants, and pack the sandwiches—and of course I do.
    Turning away, I watched as a pair of fat, curvy swallows dipped and fell through the summer sky.
    Later—Grantchester Inn (eleven pm)
    The talk at supper centred on the Apostles—who is and who isn’t. I knew the Apostles were an elite, strictly by invitation, all-male (naturally) debating society of the brightest young men in the university. But I didn’t know it was called the Apostles because there can only be twelve members at Cambridge at one time, although old members seem to stay involved for life. Lytton told me that the art critic Mr Roger Fry still comes back for meetings when he is in England. Thoby says that Desmond, Morgan Forster, Lytton, Saxon, and Mr Leonard Woolf, who is now a cadet in the Ceylon Civil Service, are all Apostles. Apparently Lytton’s friend, the brilliant Mr Maynard Keynes, who is reading economics at King’s, just joined them as well. Thoby does not seem the least bothered not to have been asked, but I think the subject makes Adrian uncomfortable.
    19 June 1905—Grantchester Inn
    At the inn to change into a warmer frock and then tea with Walter Headlam and his protégé, the beautiful Mr Rupert Brooke, who is another of Thoby’s sparkling university friends. Mr Brooke’s flexible skin is smooth like rosebud china, and his glossy hair sits in heavy gold chunks. His cloudy blue-eyed expression is distant, and his bearing is aloof. At