Between the windows was a fireplace with a bamboo overmantel. Opposite, the right wall met a sloping roof which just allowed a bookcase to stand beneath it and was pierced by two more windows which, however, looked out on to the inner battlemented wall of the First Court, and permitted no more than a glimpse of St. Mary in her turret over the chapel on the farther side. The little room itself was bare save for a square table in its centre; a couch, quite obviously much the worse for wear, against the wall immediately opposite the door; and a couple of chairs. A faded red paper covered the walls. A still more faded red carpet lay on the floor. Yet Paul saw his own room, the goal of years of work; he saw in imagination his little desk already in a corner, his books on the shelves, himself in an arm-chair before a fire with leisure to read, to write, to think. And he saw something else too, which might immediately materialise. "It's splendid, dad--just what I wanted. I'm glad to be high up; the view's so good. But I'll do one thing right away, first of all. Sit down for a minute, will you?" He placed on the table a brown paper parcel he had been carrying beneath his arm, and hurriedly tore off the wrapping. A framed text revealed itself. Then, mounting precariously on the couch, he sought and found a nail from which the last occupant had hung some picture, and there he hung his challenge, right in the centre of the wall, exactly opposite the door, placed in such wise that no one could enter without seeing the words. He stepped off and surveyed the effect. A touch made the frame finally level. Their capital letter entwined with spraying daffodils, the multi-coloured words proclaimed plainly an insistent and dogmatic legend: "One is your Master, even Christ." "That takes possession, dad, somehow. And everyone will know at once Whose I am and Whom I serve." The short elderly kindly clergyman nodded proudly, but with a little mist before his eyes. "Ay, ay, Paul laddie," he said, "I'm glad you thought of that. But it's easy to hang a text, Paul; it's harder to live up to it. Let us ask the help of the Master, my son, here and now, at the beginning of your college life." So the two knelt, with the simplicity of children. Outside, listening at the door, Mrs. Rover heard, and expressed herself strongly thereafter to Mr. Mavis. "Left hattic is one o' the pious sort, Mavis," she said. "Put a text hup, 'e 'as. Ought ter be a soft job for you." But Mavis was in his own way a philosopher, and an observer of life. "Is 'e?" he queried. "Well, I'm glad to hear it. May 'e stay so. But I dunno; I've seen a few o' them pious ones, and they often turns out more mischievous than the other young devils. Seems ter me we ought'er 'ave put new screws in them winder bars."