“Or a parson?” asked Mrs. Carthew, crunching through so many lupin stalks at once that they fell with a rattle on to the path. “Well, I have thought about being a parson,” Michael slowly granted. “But I don’t think parsons ought to marry.” “Good gracious,” exclaimed Mrs. Carthew, “you’re surely not engaged?” “Oh, no,” said Michael; but he felt extremely flattered by the imputation. “Still, I might want to be.” “Then you’re in love,” decided Mrs. Carthew. “No wonder you look so careworn. I suppose she’s nearly thirty and has promised to wait until you come of age. I can picture her. If I had my stick with me I could draw her on the gravel. A melon stuck on a bell-glass, I’ll be bound.” “I’m not in love, and if I were in love,” said Michael with dignity, “I certainly shouldn’t be in love with anyone like that. But I could be in love at any moment, and so I don’t think I shall be a parson.” “You’ve got plenty of time,” said Mrs. Carthew. “Alan says you’re going to Oxford next year.” Michael’s heart leapt—next year had never before seemed so imminent. “I suppose you’ll say that I’m an ignorant and foolish old woman, if I attempt to give you advice about Oxford; but I gave you advice once about school, and I’ll do the same again. To begin with, I think you’ll find having been to St. James’ a handicap. I have an old friend, the wife of a don, who assures me that many of the boys who go up from your school suffer at Oxford from their selfish incubation by Dr. Brownjohn. They’re fit for killing too soon. In fact, they have been forced.” “Ah, but I saw that for myself,” said Michael. “I had a row with Brownjohn about my future.” “How delighted I am to hear that!” said Mrs. Carthew. “I think that I’ll cut back the delphiniums also. Then you’re not going in for a scholarship?” “No,” said Michael. “I don’t want to be hampered, and I think my mother’s got plenty of money. But Alan’s going to get a scholarship.”