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Nirvana

I turn from a despairing survey of the present women's common room to dreaming of a different common room—a beautiful room set high up in the sun and air, with great windows looking over the harbour, a place from which to watch the passing of the clouds and the procession of the stars; a quiet, dignified, comfortable room with nothing ugly in it; a place for the tired part-timer to have a rest in and the witty to talk in.

I should get hold of Ena Spence and stand her in the window where I could see her Victorian silhouette and the fanciful dancing of her ear-rings, and get her to talk. She would describe people and incidents in precise delicate colours like a Japanese painting. I would sit and listen to Peggy MacDonald giving her views on love and marriage. I should acquire an intellectual atmosphere from Dorothy Spence-Sales. Peggy is too celebrated. I shall avoid the really famous. I shall try vainly to swot there, but as the chairs will be excessively comfortable, I shall inevitably go to sleep.

This is no idle dream. Only let us have the Institute Library Room, and all will come true. Sun is not good for books—and it is for us.

I have been thinking anxiously of Professors Gould and Brown. Will you find us noisy? I don't think you will. Or shall we make it a common common room, and then if you find us noisy you can come in and have a chat? This after all is just what is needed. Free and easy discussion in congenial surroundings—think what a splendid atmosphere of co-operation would be produced.

Everyone shall meet in this room. Max Riske and Professor Murphy shall talk things over together.

Don't let us stay any longer in our dungeon. To your tents, O Victorians.

K.H.