, before the moon
escapes. I have dressed quickly, because I wanted to begin a letter to
you. I shan't have time to finish it, but I'll do that when we've come
back from the heavenly ruins, with moonlight in my pores and romance in
my soul. I ought to write a better letter in such a mood, oughtn't I?
And I do try to write nice letters to my Angel, because she says such
dear, kind things about them, and also because I love her better every
day.

We've seen quantities of beautiful things and places since I wrote you
last, darling. To think them over is like drawing a long gold chain,
strewn at intervals with different precious stones, through the fingers,
slowly, jewel by jewel. The gold chain is our road and the beautiful
beads are the places, of course. I can say "draw them slowly through the
fingers," because we don't scorch. We are out to see the "fair face of
England," not to scurry over it like distracted flies.

I don't remember many "jewels" on the way to Gloucester from Bath
through Cold Aston and Stroud; but if I were properly up in history, no
doubt I should have noted more than I did; yet Gloucester itself was a
diamond of the first water. I feared to be disappointed in the
Cathedral, so soon after exquisite Wells and the Abbey at Bath, which I
loved. But as soon as I got inside it was quite otherwise, especially as
I had Sir Lionel to show me things, and he knew Gloucester of old. To
me, the interior was almost as interesting as Winchester itself (which,
so far, has outranked all), for the transition from one period to
another is so clearly and strangely marked, and it's the actual
birthplace of Perpendicular architecture. The Cloisters must be among
the loveliest in the world; and there's a great, jewelled window which
leaves a gorgeous scintillating circle in my mind's eye, just as the sun
does on your body's eye, when you have looked in the face of its glory.
Oh, and the extraordinary stone veil, with its gilded ornamentation! I
shan't forget that, but shall think of it when I am old. There is an
effect as of tall rows of ripe wheat bending toward one another,
gleaming as wheat does when the breeze blows and the sun shines.

We heard the choir singing, an unseen choir of boys and men; and the
voices were like shafts of crystal, rising, rising, rising, up as far as
heaven, for all I know.

Don't you feel that the voice of a boy is purer, more impersonal and
sexless, somehow, than the clearest soprano of