"Well--anyhow, I could eat something," said John, putting the letter in his pocket. "Righto!--draw up!" said Vernley, passing the bread and cheese. "Oh--I've written home to say that you'll spend the holidays with us." "He won't--at least he'll spend part with me," corrected Marsh. "Thanks--but I can't make any plans, you see I don't know what's going to happen yet." "But you must go somewhere, Scissors," cried Vernley lightly. The moment he had said it, and saw the dumb pain in John's eyes he would have torn his tongue out to retrieve the careless remark. "Scissors, I don't mean it that way--you know I don't!" he added desperately. "No, I know you don't," agreed John, swallowing hard, and trying to look steadily back. They ate their supper in silence. Even Marsh's forced gaiety failed. The weeks leading to the end of the term went swiftly. Bit by bit the news dribbled through, news of how his father had been killed--this in a letter from the doctor at the American Mission. His father had been buried next to his mother at Marsovan, under the same almond tree whose blossom John could still picture in his mind, so deeply was the first impression etched. Then later came Mr. Glass from his father's company, somewhat surprised and hurt at John's refusal of the clerkship. His father had been insured for £500. There was that, and a small balance at the bank, not more than £600 in all. Was he wise in refusing the opening, which would lead, in years to come, to a very good position? John looked at Mr. Glass, with his bald head, large stomach and expressionless face, and the result of success did not appeal to him. Mr. Glass prepared to depart. "Well, you may think better of it, my boy. Your father would have wished it, I know. I don't see what more we can do for you--but there, if you do change your mind and need us, we are there, remember." Clumsily done, but well meant, and John realising this, thanked him and shook the hand extended towards him. After Mr. Glass had gone Fletcher looked at John. "I suppose you intend going up to King's?" he said. "I think you will pull through all right with care." "No, sir, I feel I ought to begin doing what must be done--earn my living. Six hundred pounds is not much, and I shouldn't feel happy knowing that I was using it up." "But Cambridge may lead to opportunities--a Fellowship--at least a degree, which is useful. At the worst you can become a--a schoolmaster." He smiled apologetically for the joke against himself. "And meanwhile, sir, make expensive friends and acquire expensive tastes? Why shouldn't I do the last thing first, and learn whether I have the inclination." "The last?" queried Mr. Fletcher. "Yes, sir, I thought of getting a junior mastership--if I could. A year would not matter greatly. If I failed at that--then I would go up to Cambridge--it would not be too late." "No, but you are wasting a year."