 Goddy Night. A Lord Peter Wimsey and Harriet Vane Mystery. By Dorothy L. Sayers. Narrated by Ian Carmichael. The university is a paradise. Rivers of knowledge are there. Arts and sciences flow from themse. Council tables are auticonclusi, as it is said in the canticles. Gardens that are walled in, and they are Fontes Signate. Wells that are sealed up. Bottomless depths of unsearchable councils there. John Dong. Chapter One. Thou blind man's mark. Thou fool's self-chosen snare. Font fancy scum, and dregs of scattered thought. Band of all evils. Cradle of coarseless care. Thou web of will, whose end is never wrought. Desire, desire. I have too dearly bought with price of mangled mind thy worthless wear. Sir Philip Sidney. Harriet Vane sat at her writing-table, and stared out into Mecklenburg Square. The late Tulips made a brave show in the Square Garden, and a quartet of early tennis players were energetically calling the score of a rather erratic and unpracticed game. But Harriet saw neither Tulips nor tennis players. A letter lay open on the blotting-pad before her, but his image had faded from her mind to make way for another picture. She saw a stone quadrangle, built by a modern architect in a style neither new nor old, but stretching out reconciling hands to past and present. Folded within its wall was lay a trim grass plot, with flowerbeds splashed at the angles, and surrounded by a wide stone plinth. Behind the level roofs of Cotswold Slate rose the brick chimneys of an older and less formal pile of buildings. A quadrangle, also of a kind, but still keeping a domestic remembrance of the original Victorian dwelling houses that had sheltered the first shy students of Shrewsbury College. In front were the trees of Jowitt Walk, and beyond them a jumble of ancient cables, and the tower of New College, with its jack doors wheeling against a windy sky. Memory, people, the quad with moving figures. Students sauntering in pairs, students dashing to lectures, their gowns hitched hurriedly over light summer frocks, the wind jerking their flat caps into the absurd likeness of so many jester's coxcombs. Bicycles stacked in the porter's lodge, their carriers piled with books, and gowns twisted about their handlebars. A grizzled woman don crossing the turf with vague eyes, her thoughts riveted upon aspects of sixteenth-century philosophy. Her sleeves floating, her shoulders cocked the academic angle that automatically compensated the backward drag of the pleated poplin. Two male commoners in search of a coat.