There was a shadow then even on this bright day. He loved her so. One moment, was it quite that? Was it not rather that he wanted to love her so much, wanted that they should speak and walk together, and knew they could not? Inexorably, hate it as he might, the irresistible tides were sweeping them apart. He was being moved on and out, protest as he would and did. Yet he could not protest altogether as he would, for his very heart was shaken. There was a "war in his members"--the old, old phrase rose unbidden in his mind. And, serene and far as that blue sky, God seemed to be. Thus a thoughtful Paul went in to luncheon, yet wholly unaware of the new flood that was even then gathering to its height and was about to overmaster him. For a while the two talked inconsequently, on small things. Then, when the coffee was on the table, Tressor reopened the conversation of the morning. "So, honestly, you don't quite know what to do next?" "No. But I suppose I shall teach for a year or two, if possible do some private coaching. I must earn money; I shall have to say no definitely to the theological college next year, not this." "Literature?" "Well, of course, wherever I am I shall write. I can't help it. But could I make a living with my pen? I don't suppose so, and I can't ask my father for money. And even if I could, I doubt awfully if I could do occasional journalism." Tressor shook his head emphatically. "Don't try," he said. "It's an impossibility for you, I should say--not your line at all." Paul suddenly realised what a problem he was up against. He sighed. "It's awfully hard," he said. "I suppose I must teach." "No," said Tressor, "not yet anyway. I want you to give your own literary taste a chance. Write poetry. Do another play--more carefully this time." Paul smiled ruefully. In the Lent Term he had had an inspiration. Dropping his reading, cutting his lectures, burying himself in his rooms, he had begun and written a play. And Tressor had lectured him for the first, threatened dire things for the second, and finally and utterly turned down the last. "I'd love to," said Paul, "but--I couldn't write a line in Claxted anyway." "I know," said Tressor equably. "I don't suppose you could, and I'm not suggesting it. But what about Fordham?" "Fordham?" queried Paul, puzzled. The other nodded. "Fordham--my house." "But--but----" "Yes; as you know, I have a house to which I go occasionally. My friends sometimes consider it an unnecessary luxury since I'm only there two or three times a year. But it's rather a nice house, and it wants living in. It would do it good to have someone living in it and looking after it a little. There are some cottages, and some rough shooting, and a garden. I bought the place because of the garden; you'd like it. You might write poetry in it, and a play, or half a dozen, seeing how quickly you write. What do you say?"