It was impossible at this stage to do anything or say anything to shake Lucian’s confidence in his destiny. He meant to work hard and to do great things, and without being conceited he was sure of success--it seemed to him to be his rightful due. Thanks to the influence of his father in childhood and to that of Mr. Chilverstone at a later stage, he had formed a fine taste and was already an accomplished scholar. He had never read any trash in his life, and it was now extremely unlikely that he ever would, for he had developed an almost womanish dislike of the unlovely, the mean, and the sordid, and a delicate contempt for anything in literature that was not based on good models. Mr. Chilverstone had every confidence in him, and every hope of his future; it filled him with pride to know that he was sending so promising a man to his own university; but he was cast down when he found that Lord Simonstower insisted on Lucian’s entrance at St. Benedict’s, instead of at St. Perpetua’s, his own old college. The only person who was full of fears was Sprats. She had been Lucian’s other self for six years, and she, more than any one else, knew his need of constant help and friendship. He was full of simplicity; he credited everybody with the possession of qualities and sympathies which few people possess; he lived in a world of dreams rather than of stern facts. He was obstinate, wayward, impulsive; much too affectionate, and much too lovable; he lived for the moment, and only regarded the future as one continual procession of rosy hours. Sprats, with feminine intuition, feared the moment when he would come into collision with stern experience of the world and the worldly--she longed to be with him when that moment came, as she had been with him when the frailty and coquetry of the Dolly kid nearly broke his child’s heart. And so during the last few days of his stay at Simonstower she hovered about him as a faithful mother does about a sailor son, and she gave him much excellent advice and many counsels of perfection. ‘You know you are a baby,’ she said, when Lucian laughed at her. ‘You have been so coddled all your life that you will cry if a pin pricks you. And there will be no Sprats to tie a rag round the wound.’ ‘It would certainly be better if Sprats were going too,’ he said thoughtfully, and his face clouded. ‘But then,’ he continued, flashing into a smile, ‘after all, Oxford is only two hundred miles from Simonstower, and there are trains which carry one over two hundred miles in a very short time. If I should chance to fall and bump my nose I shall take a ticket by the next train and come to Sprats to be patched up.’ ‘I shall keep a stock of ointments and lotions and bandages in perpetual readiness,’ she said. ‘But it must be distinctly understood, Lucian, that I have the monopoly of curing you--I have a sort of notion, you know, that it is my chief mission in life to be your nurse.’